


Île Aux Ours

by ladymelodrama, salzrand



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Bear Island AU, Canon Divergence - Robert's Rebellion Never Happened, F/M, King Rhaegar Targaryen, Lord Jorah Mormont of Bear Island, Princess Daenerys Targaryen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:55:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 59,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26950990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladymelodrama/pseuds/ladymelodrama, https://archiveofourown.org/users/salzrand/pseuds/salzrand
Summary: "Our brother, the king, commands it.Viserys had said, but she knew better.This washisscheme,hisbrand of revenge..."An arranged marriage fic, in which Princess Daenerys Targaryen is married off to the widower Lord of Bear Island. With illustrations by salzrand <3
Relationships: Ashara Dayne/Barristan Selmy, Jorah Mormont/Daenerys Targaryen, Tormund Giantsbane/Alysane Mormont
Comments: 548
Kudos: 340





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so the prologue is actually just more tease but I couldn't resist <3
> 
> A note on character ages/timeline, etc., I always use book dates as a guide and this story begins in the year 296AC. Robert's Rebellion never happened. The transfer of power from Aerys to Rhaegar went fairly smoothly (more on this later) and King Rhaegar Targaryen currently sits on the throne of Westeros. The kingdoms are at peace and it's late summer. Viserys is still a royal dumbass.
> 
> I've aged Daenerys up by a few years (because ughh to minor!Dany but also I wanted her to be a little older than Rhaenys and Aegon) so she was born in 277AC. So Daenerys is 19 at the beginning of this story and Jorah is 38. This also means that Rhaella died a little earlier as well (and before Aerys), since she still died giving birth to Daenerys :'( 
> 
> More adjustments to canon to be revealed as the story unfolds. But basically, you can expect: arranged marriage + Bear Island + only one bed + awkward lobsters + FLUFF + Mormont girls + salzrand illustrations (#ajksldajkdjlajkjal) = <33333333333333 
> 
> Mwah!

**_Prologue_ **

On a flagship bound from Deepwood Motte to Bear Island, Daenerys found she couldn’t stay below deck any longer. She needed fresh air—too restless, too anxious about reaching the end of this journey and embarking on her new life. 

As they travelled north, she was able to distract herself with the sights of the road and the hospitality of familiar holdfasts and harbors, as they stopped at Dragonstone, White Harbor and Winterfell along the way. 

But here, crossing the channel, only a few leagues away from this wild and remote island that was to be her new home, she suddenly felt the crushing weight of everything falling on her once again, just as she had the morning Viserys barged into her private chambers in the Red Keep, and sneered through news that she was to marry Lord Jorah Mormont in just over a fortnight.

_Our brother, the king, commands it._ Viserys had said, but she knew better. 

This was _his_ scheme, _his_ brand of revenge. 

And yet, she shuddered to think how easily Rhaegar had gone along with it. Her brothers had both failed her, miserably, and not for the first time.

Well, it was done. 

She was Jorah Mormont’s lady wife now, their vows witnessed in the Light of the Seven, their oaths spoken before gods and men. Her brothers were satisfied, thinking the marriage had been consummated the night of the ceremony. Jorah had lied for her, giving truth to their assumption, before they left the capital.

She was Lady of Bear Island, even though she’d never stepped foot north of Dragonstone in her entire life. How could she be lady of lands she knew nothing of? Of people she’d been told were near wildlings, and had little love lost on her family name? 

How could she be a wife to a man she’d known only a month? 

Her head swirled with uncertainty and she felt her heart pounding in her chest. She went up to the rail near the ship’s bow, seeking out the force of that chilly sea breeze, and a clear view of the horizon, attempting to catch a glimpse of the island they were bound for.

_If I see the island before the first sailor calls it out…oh, maybe I’ll be happy here._

She made a desperate, silly wager with herself, as had been her habit since she was a little girl. She knew it was nonsense, as if fate would turn for the sake of a young woman’s prayer.

But still, she sought out that island, eyes peeled over the dark blue waters, flickering at the wispy haze between sky and sea. _Please…_

“Princess?” 

Her hands were braced on the rail, so she turned slightly at the gently-spoken title, and found Lord Jorah walking towards her. 

Almost as soon as they left Deepwood Motte, he’d shed his finer clothes for more practical attire, those leathers and wools more commonly found on a sailor instead of a lord. But this suited him, and he looked more comfortable out of stiff collars and rich damask. The sea breeze was playing at his red-blond curls, blowing them every which way.

She found herself smiling when she saw him, though she didn’t plan it, and shyly brushing a wandering strand of her own hair away from her face.

He approached her slowly and kept a respectful distance between them, bowing his head as he amended his greeting, using her given name, “Daenerys.”

“My lord,” she replied, dipping her head just slightly in response. The title fell off her lips clumsily, as she was just as unsure about what she should call him. 

_Jorah._

The answer was obvious but it felt strangely intimate to use only his name, a man she barely knew. The only men she called by name were her brothers. 

And yet…

He was her husband. She was Jorah Mormont’s _wife_. The unlikely thought unsettled her, but not in the way her darker musings had imagined. The dread-fear she thought she’d feel when Viserys turned her over to this wild bear from the North had vanished on her wedding day, as Jorah was _nothing_ like Viserys had said. 

She should have expected that, as her brother was a liar, even when they were children.

But what she truly didn’t expect, was how soft Jorah’s expression went whenever he looked her way or how at ease she felt in his presence, even after that first hour. 

It was all so absurd. She didn’t know him. She knew nothing about him.

_Except that he gave you those books. And he lied for you once already._

He was staring at her intently, curiously, no doubt reading a troubled spirit in her tense features. He seemed to sense her feelings well enough, both the day of their wedding and afterwards. But he realized he was staring soon enough and dropped his gaze, to the hem of her skirt, to the toes of his boots. His hands were clasped before him as he considered his next words. He must’ve sensed her nervousness and felt compelled to alleviate it.

“My aunt will meet us at the docks,” he told her simply, giving her insight into what she might expect upon landing. His gaze flickered up once more, “And my cousins too. They will be respectful to you, but distant. This won’t be a warm reception, especially for a princess. Your family has held the Seven Kingdoms for centuries but I’m afraid the farther north you go, the less that seems to matter. I hope you won’t take offense.”

“No, of course not,” she promised him, grateful for the warning.

Jorah hesitated on his next words, gaze dropping again for a long minute. But he finally dragged his eyes up from the decking to meet hers directly, while swallowing hard.

“They’ll have prepared my chamber for us,” he muttered, and she watched the tips of his ears go just a little red as he made the nature of the arrangements clear. “I think it best we share the same quarters, at least for a little while. The king seemed convinced of our…union, but I’m not entirely sure about Viserys and your brother’s spies extend to all corners of the kingdoms.”

“Yes, I know,” she answered ruefully, agreeing with him. 

She wasn’t worried about sharing his bedchamber. He proved his restraint and his kindness in King’s Landing. He would never force himself on her, she knew this. She was glad of the continued ruse, in a way, as she didn’t want to spend the night alone in a strange place and he was the only person she knew for hundreds of miles.

And more than that—she found so much sympathy in his blue eyes that she could scarcely look away. It was the oddest thing. But he seemed to chase away the doubts and fears by a glance alone, leaving behind only this unshakeable feeling of…

“There she is…,” Jorah took a step closer, softly brushing her shoulder as he joined her at the rail. She neglected to move away, as he was a tall man and she found that she liked when he stood beside her. There was a sense of safety and protection in the shadow of a knight, and this one, in particular. With a sharp eye, he pointed the island out to her, helping her find the tiny speck of land on the open sea, a sight only its lord and master would be able to recognize from such a distance.

Under his patient guidance, a very small smile soon claimed her lips. She saw it. She saw her new home, rising up from blue water.

_Bear Island._

“Land ho!” was called out from the masthead only a few minutes later. But Daenerys had won her secret wager, so the shout brought her no grief. 

_Because of you_ , she conceded, stealing another glance at Jorah. 

The entire way north, he’d said nothing of his own anxiety or fears—in being a pawn in her brother’s games, in bringing home a Targaryen bride to a place where Targaryens weren’t exactly welcome. But she noticed that his hands now gripped the rail a little tightly and his expression, still fixed on his island, was stormy.

Daenerys was suddenly stirred to repay his kindness, and she swayed just a little closer. Without taking time to question the action, she stretched out her fingers, her left hand coming to rest on his right.


	2. Daenerys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to know my feelings on King's Landing, just take a look at Rhaenys’s face...or Balerion's 😂

_Three months before…_

**_Daenerys_ **

Honestly, I don’t know why I said it. 

I knew better. Gods, I _knew_ better. I knew as soon as the words left my mouth that there would be consequences. I saw the familiar fire burn and rage in Viserys’s sharp eyes as he glared down at me in that hard, unyielding way that said I’d gone too far.

 _You’ve woken the dragon, Dany._ That look haunted me as a child, as I saw it pass his pinched visage too often. Even now, I cringed on that look, despite promising myself years ago that I wouldn’t let him see how much it still affected me.

I was a disappointment to both of my brothers, I’m sure, but Viserys most of all. He needed a sister who was malleable and demure, a wallflower who was willing to play the games of court quietly and naively, doe-eyed at her needlework and silver-tongued in the gardens, spreading minor gossip while taking tea and cakes with respectable ladies-in-waiting. 

Except that I didn’t like the games of court and refused to play them. All those secrets and lies, crisscrossing the Red Keep. They were like a spoked wheel intent on crushing me beneath.

And I rarely chose any ladies to attend me, preferring my niece, Rhaenys, and her mother, Elia, as my only true companions. It was an easy choice, as I’d loved them both for as long as I could remember. Elia mended some of the darkness that my mother’s death left behind. And Rhaenys was only a few years younger than me. We’d grown up together. 

And as the King’s wife and his daughter, they didn’t simper or bow or try to curry my favor, so as to win Viserys’s hand or Rhaegar’s notice. 

It would seem natural for me to love them dearly. But somehow, in loving Rhaegar’s wife and his children, I offended both of my brothers. Most decidedly.

For Elia Martell had been forced upon Rhaegar by our father. And our father was undeniably _mad_.

King’s Landing still shivered on the near calamity that was my father, Aerys Targaryen.

We were a house torn nearly asunder by his madness. Given the chance, he would have burned this red-tiled city to ash and then the entire countryside beyond. By the end, he kept faith with his pyromancer and no one else. He greeted his closest advisors with paranoid suspicion and his former allies as enemies to be set afire. His rough cruelty killed our mother. 

Or would have, if I didn’t do it for him, just by being born. 

But Rhaegar saved us, taking the reins at court before it was too late and undermining Father’s final influence at the precise moment when it was most necessary. 

At a grand tourney in Harrenhal, during the false spring preceding my birth, Rhaegar tossed the crown of winter roses to Elia, in afterthought, before striding to our father and whispering something in his bent ear, firmly, with a tightened grip on Father’s forearm that dug into the older man’s wrinkled skin insistently.

Those at Harrenhal that day said that my father swallowed hard on whatever my eldest brother said. Ser Barristan Selmy says it must have been a lasting threat, the young dragon spitting fire at the old. Lady Ashara thinks he merely told our father what was already obvious to every spectator there that day, all those ladies and lords who witnessed Rhaegar’s command of the tourney and victory at the joust.

_I am king here, Father. Only me…_

Our father made no grand speeches from that day forward. No decisions of state either. It was _always_ Rhaegar, with his commanding voice, his endless charm and his irrepressible talents. His pride too, which swelled in time, blooming in the knowledge of all that he achieved. Young as he was, the high lords all looked to him for guidance. 

When our father died, he was already wearing the crown, in everything but name.

And when our mother died at Dragonstone, during a storm that howled and raged and splintered ships to kindling—heralding my stormy welcome into this world—and our father followed only a few years later, Rhaegar became our guardian, bringing Viserys and I to King’s Landing, to grow up with his own children. We were all orphans, three together, knowing only that our father was mad, our mother was weak and that we were the last dragons.

I wish I could say it brought us closer together. But it did not.

That morning, it was early when Viserys came down to the courtyard, in a frazzled hurry, as was his custom. His gaze was darting around the ivy-wrapped pillars and cascading fountains, with a high-pitched, “Dany!” already escaping his lips before he hit the level stones. 

Rhaenys and I were sitting at the center fountain, babbling water running down the ivory scales of a sculpted, ruby-eyed dragon, playing a game of hounds and jackals. The board was balanced on the fountain stones between us. That old smoky-black cat, Balerion, was near Rhaenys, as always, twining his slinky form around her crossed ankles, before rolling in the soft, sweet grass at our feet. Every once in a while, Rhaenys would reach down and pet the cat between his ears or scratch just under his furry chin. 

“You’re a handsome cat. Yes, you are.”

They’d been inseparable since Rhaenys was still a little girl and carried her kitten around the gilded halls of the Red Keep in a little basket. Ser Barristan and Ashara both told the story often enough, with fond grins exchanged between them.

We both heard Viserys coming—there was no mistaking his frantic footfalls. Rhaenys and I just rolled our eyes at the forthcoming summons. He likely had some life-and-death matter that needed attending to, as there were few other reasons for Viserys to seek out my company.

And the list of things Viserys considered life-and-death was _extensive_. 

“We’re over here, Viserys,” I mentioned, trying not to grumble through the words. I was tempted to just ignore him completely and try to sneak out of the courtyard, unseen, crouching down behind the maze of fountains and crawling away, to disappear into the inner Keep. Rhaenys knew this. She suppressed a little chuckle, while giving me a quick, conspiratorial glance that said she would have gone along with it, either way. 

“What are you doing out here, Dany?” Viserys demanded, the strands of his shoulder-length hair quavering on the force of his tense steps. “Cersei needs you…” 

“For what?” I wondered, not bothering to pause our game. I cast the throwing sticks on the board, not at all interested in the whims of his Lannister bride-to-be.

“She said she sent for you over an hour ago,” my brother neglected to answer the crux of my question and his tone was already turning indignant. Lady Lannister must be in _quite_ the mood this morning.

But when wasn’t she?

“Well, I’m finishing a game with Rhaenys,” I said, even though he should have been able to surmise our activities on his own. I moved one of my jackals three spots forward. My heart was beating just a little faster, despite my brave words. I knew that this wouldn’t end well, so I’m not sure why I insisted on testing the limits of my brother’s patience. But not wanting a scene either, I decided to compromise, “I’ll go up and see your lady after we’re done.”

“No, Daenerys, you will go up _now_ ,” Viserys’s posture was _so_ rigid. He was attempting to be domineering but it came across as shrill. He didn’t have the voice for it, nor the stature. He was not much taller than me and I was the shortest grown woman at court. 

Even Rhaenys, four years younger than me and still only fifteen, had already surpassed my height by an inch. Perhaps Viserys’s too. I would have suggested they stand back to back so I could confirm it, but Viserys was in no mood for that sort of thing.

“Cersei Lannister can wait a quarter hour,” I argued, mumbling under my breath.

“I said you will go now,” Viserys words were forced out between clenched teeth. Without hesitation, he reached down and pulled me up by my upper arm, disturbing our game and knocking two of the jackals into the clear water filling that fountain. A third fell to the grassy patch beneath the stonework, where Balerion immediately pounced upon the glossy figurine, claws outstretched.

Viserys wasn’t seething yet. But he was close. As was I. He wasn’t the only one with a temper and I just…oh, _why_ did I say anything at all?

“I see the lioness has her pet snake wrapped tightly around her forepaw this morning,” I goaded him, my tone too sincere, my frown too reproachful, my chin lifted with just a little too much defiance—all saying that I thought him weak and too willing to act as his lady’s steward. 

My barb was well-placed and stung his pride where it hurt the most. I knew what I was doing when I said it. And it wasn’t just leveled against my brother, but his betrothed wife as well—and Cersei Lannister was even less forgiving of insults. She considered them debts to be repaid. 

And how the Lannisters love to pay their debts.

Despite my feigned ignorance, I knew exactly why Cersei summoned me to her presence. She wished to discuss the matter of her wedding, which was approaching swiftly. The celebration was mere weeks away. We waited on her father and her brothers to arrive at the capital and then she would stand up in the Sept of Baelor and promise to love my brother for all eternity. 

Or love his family name, at least.

With any other woman, the impending nuptials might have meant a chat between future sisters about pleasant, frivolous things. Flowers and romantic foolishness. But I knew Cersei. I knew that her thinly-veiled tolerance for me, an old and unbreakable habit, grew thinner with every day that passed.

She’d already told me that I would need to cut my hair before the ceremony, as she planned to wear her hair in braids and said we couldn’t match. 

“And you would look far better with a shorter style, Daenerys,” she cooed, taking my chin in her hand and regarding me with a critical, patronizing gaze that oozed insincerity. She was twelve years older than me, so she was able to hide behind the idea that she was slipping into a mother’s role, or the older sister I never had. “You’re far too small to wear your hair so long, dear one.”

Rhaegar thought that her interest in me was sweet and generous and that I should take pains to emulate the fine lady from Casterly Rock, despite knowing that I preferred his own wife, Elia—wasn’t that honor enough?

Viserys likely didn’t think on Cersei’s manner with me. He had little care how she treated me. He had little care for me at all.

At my brazen words, he released my arm roughly, bringing back his hand quick, only to strike the back of his hand hard across my cheek, which elicited an immediate and sympathetic yelp from Rhaenys, who jumped up from our ruined game directly, to stand beside me. 

She scowled darkly at her uncle, clenching her fist. But there was little she could do but take my arm and ask me if I was all right. Viserys wasn’t above hitting her too.

Although, to be honest, Viserys usually preferred to ignore Rhaenys and Aegon completely, as they were of little consequence. They were too Dornish to matter, that’s what our father would have said. 

But worse than that, it’s what _their_ father still said. 

Rhaegar had named Viserys his heir many years ago, setting aside the claims of his own trueborn children. He’d never bar them from King’s Landing, as they were his flesh and blood, after all. But there was no secret that he preferred when Elia took the children to Sunspear or Starfall for extended stays. 

I think Viserys would have let my words go if our niece had been the only witness. 

But my timing has never been very good. And Robert and Lyanna Baratheon were visiting the capital that month. I’d said those cheeky words just as Lady Lyanna emerged from the westerly archway, dressed in a gown I’d seen her wearing last night at dinner, fresh from the king’s personal chambers. 

Under cover of a lazy King’s Landing morning, she was about to cross the courtyard and return to her snoring husband’s side, before the drunken old stag roused himself from all that midnight feasting and drinking. 

Lyanna heard my words and saw Viserys strike me. That, by itself, wouldn’t have mattered. My brother was not one to scold or hit me behind closed doors. But we all saw the scandalous direction the woman hurried away from. 

Surprise colored that lady’s northern features as much as a blush sunrise, parting her lips on the unexpected meeting. But there was no gasp on my features, no surprise either, as this wasn’t the first time in my life that I’d seen Lyanna Baratheon leaving Rhaegar’s chambers. 

I’m sure it wouldn’t be the last. 

Later, I’d realize that it was my _lack_ of surprise that sealed my fate. 

Viserys thought I didn’t know. But _how_ could that be? It certainly wasn’t common knowledge but I’d grown up in this house, same as him. I knew all my brothers’ secrets, I knew all their greatest hopes and fears.

As I looked away from Lady Baratheon’s retreating and hurried footsteps, I met Viserys’s waiting gaze. My heart sank as I recognized another fear written there, in those stern features. One that would force him to take action. 

I’m not my brothers. I don’t take what isn’t mine or leverage knowledge or power or charm to get what I want. That’s not my way. 

But it _is_ Viserys’s way and so when he realized that I _knew_ …I knew that there was another who might someday challenge Viserys’s right to the throne, secret bastard though he may be—a boy already universally well-liked, despite his tendency towards seriousness and brooding that was a decidedly northern trait. A boy who had none of that Dornish blood that allowed Rhaegar to so easily set Rhaenys and Aegon aside, without anyone raising a word against it…

Thank the gods that Jon Baratheon took after his mother. And that Robert Baratheon was about as observant as a block of wood. Or we’d be in the midst of a civil war by now.

And should I happen to whisper this secret in the right ear? Viserys didn’t have a winning personality. There were many who would jump at the chance to snatch a future crown from his grasping fingers.

Did the temptation flicker across my face? If it did, I had no knowledge of it. As I said, it wasn’t my way.

But Viserys always saw what he wanted. He thought I’d seek revenge for this. He thought I’d endanger his own path to the Iron Throne by betraying the existence of our brother’s bastard. 

Perhaps now, perhaps later. 

If this would be my revenge, it was stupid and chaotic and bound to have consequences far beyond an insult or a blow to the cheek. I would never… 

_How could you ever think I’d risk plunging Westeros into war over this? I’ve suffered worse from you, Viserys, and I’m sure I’ll suffer worse from you yet…_

My eyes sought out my brother’s, sensing the dangerous path his mind had set him on, imploring him to see reason instead. But Viserys took after our father in too many ways. If I struck him in front of another lord, he knew what he’d do in my place. 

He’d burn it all to the ground, just to burn me too.

I blame what happened next on this precise moment, but I suppose it was more a culmination of years. Perhaps I’d just woken the dragon one too many times. 

In either case, Viserys released me and said no more about Cersei, his gaze steely but somewhat distant, as if looking through both Rhaenys and me. Without another word, he strode away from us, silently and in a strange humor.

I didn’t like the tension that lingered in his wake.

After he left, I offered a brave smile to Rhaenys, pulling my hand away from my still stinging cheek, as we sat back down to our game. By tonight, I’d have a bruise on my cheek that would last a few days. 

Viserys would never hit me again. But only because he had a more lasting revenge in mind.

At the time, I couldn’t guess what it might be. But as I cast those throwing sticks to the rosewood board, I felt a shiver run through my heart, nonetheless, knowing my brother too well. 

Knowing the dragon was still very much awake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon. Baratheon. *snicker* (I seriously don't why the idea of Bobby B and Johnny-Boy as a father-son duo gives me joy...but it does) <3
> 
> Oh my god, also. There's a "Balerion the Cat - ASOIAF" tag on here. Good. He deserves his own tag. 😂🐈


	3. Jorah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bear. Island. Annnnnd the chapter when I realized that oh yeah, all the Mormont girls are alive in this AU! Expect appearances by _all_ of them by the end of this <3 <3 <3

**_Jorah_ **

“Jorah?” 

I heard Dacey’s voice calling from somewhere further down the east hallway. She was near the servant’s staircase and the library, which was as likely a place for me to be hiding as any. 

A deluge of late summer rainstorms had settled over the Island the past few days, dripping down the eaves and muddying up the meadowlands. There was little work that could be done outside in pouring rains and she knew I was more apt to spend a stormy day in the pages of old books instead of with company.

Not that we had much company in Mormont Keep these days, as I wasn’t one to entertain visitors from the mainland unless forced into it, at least not for ten years now. My father was much the same. I’d once sworn that the halls of this house would not fall into sullenness while I was lord of the place, but…well, I found myself becoming more like Father every year. 

Perhaps it was inevitable.

I’d even considered joining him at Castle Black, taking vows and turning the reins of Bear Island over to Maege’s capable hands. It was a needling thought that had recently become a little more piercing. Ten years since she’d been gone, the babes too, and the Island still seemed as grey as the weather, even when the sun was out. 

Was this how Father felt after my mother passed away? Is this what chased him so far from home? I mulled over these thoughts too often lately, as they refused to let me be.

But not today, despite the gloomy weather. Today, I had business to distract me and more pressing, if no less discouraging, matters to attend. I was balancing the Island’s accounts and attempting to reconcile the shortfall that resulted once I added in the additional taxes that Rhaegar Targaryen, in his divine wisdom, had decided to level against each house from Bear Island to the Saltshore.

We were short on funds. Again. I’d have to write to Ned Stark at Winterfell and beg a deferral. I could petition the crown directly but, much like my father, I had little patience for the Targaryens. And we were such a minor house, my request would likely go unanswered, even if I swallowed my pride and sent it out.

My own pride could probably withstand the insult but Maege and the girls would growl noisily if they found out that I considered groveling before the southern lords. 

Even if they knew it was necessary.

“I’m down here, Dacey,” I answered her, setting that pen aside and sitting back in my chair. Scratching out the numbers a thousand times wasn’t going to change anything. I couldn’t come up with what we didn’t have. I sighed, in a dismal mood, and waited for her to appear in the doorway of the small, snug chamber. 

I’d claimed this little room as my personal study many years back, even before Father went to the Wall. It was a place of books and ledgers, candle flame and dripping eaves. The wind always whistled against this side of the Keep with a lonesome tune. 

Dacey’s steps echoed in the outer hall and soon she was standing before me. My fierce cousin, tall and lanky, with dark brown hair and sharp, intelligent eyes, born with her mother’s steel-and-iron bearing—if I went to Castle Black, she’d be her mother’s heir. And the Island could ask for no better. Sometimes, I wondered if maybe Dacey might have been a better choice for Lord Protector of Bear Island in the first place. She knew its river and streams, its mountain paths and damp glens, better than any of us. 

Although the same could be said for Alysane, Jorelle, Lyra and even Lyanna, child though she still was. All of Maege’s daughters had their mother’s deep ties to this land, as if their roots dug deep into the mountainside and berries and brambles were woven through the long strands of their dark hair.

Maybe their father was a bear, after all? Maege has never told me for certain and I’d never dare ask her outright. I would be forty in less than two years’ time. I’d fought off Greyjoy raiders from Pyke since I was a boy, I’d been knighted on the mainland and I was the only son of the Old Bear, but I still wasn’t _that_ brave.

Despite the rainfall, I was a little surprised to see Dacey wandering the corridors of the Keep. She wasn’t one to be kept inside by inclement weather and she…

It took only a few seconds for me to realize that she had a raven’s scroll clutched in her hand. And even from where I was sitting, I recognized the nature of the seal affixed to that letter, as it was scarlet-colored, with blackened edges, swirled in scaled patterns and sealed with an expensive wax found nowhere but the capital.

_The mark of dragons._

My features must have betrayed me, for Dacey smirked on my muddled expression, teasing lightly as she held up the scroll, “We didn’t realize that you’d distinguished yourself so greatly, cousin. You’re a personal correspondent of King Rhaegar Targaryen now?”

“What does he want?” I wondered, grumbling already. We hadn’t received a raven from King’s Landing since King Aerys died, almost a score of years ago.

“It’s addressed to you,” Dacey shrugged, while tossing the sealed letter into my hands. I caught the rolled parchment deftly, and used my thumb to break the seal. Dacey waited patiently, arms crossed over her chest, while my eyes scanned the contents of that message.

_Why would…?_

My eyes narrowed. I read it twice. And then a third time. It was written in Lord Varys’s elegant hand and his penmanship was better than most, but the words he relayed still made little sense to me. I found my brow furrowing, _severely_ , over the strange and unlikely contents of that letter.

“Bad news then?” Dacey assumed, setting her expression and clenching her teeth, ready to receive the news, whatever it might be. Nothing good came from King’s Landing. That was an old and simple truth known up and down these cold shores. But I was shaking my head.

“No…I don’t…,” I wasn’t sure how to describe it, and decided to just pass the missive back into her hands so she could read it for herself. She took a step forward as I held it out. Her dark eyes flickered on the handful of lines, her lips parting as she tried to parse out the same bizarre words that gave me such pause.

 _Our King has decided to bless House Mormont. Please have your lord make arrangements to visit the capital within the month. Lord Jorah Mormont of Bear Island is to marry Daenerys Stormborn, of House Targaryen, before the new moon. Do not think to ignore these summons. Sincerely, Lord Varys_

Dacey turned the message over but found nothing more scribbled on the back of the parchment. Four lines and not a word about how or why this was to happen. My cousin blinked and exhaled on a half-laugh that spoke of absurdity.

“Is this a joke?” she wondered, echoing my own thoughts.

“That’s the Spider’s handwriting,” I allowed, having seen it at Winterfell and in the many demands for taxes forwarded by Lord Stark. “So unless the Master of Whisperers has decided to spend his time sending nonsense to the lords of Westeros…”

But my expression was tinged with its own brand of confusion. Heaps of it. 

“Daenerys Stormborn? As in…the princess?” Dacey mused, her eyes running over the lines of the letter again, as if willing the letters to rearrange themselves to make some sort of sense. I nodded blankly.

“She’s only a child, isn’t she?” I was frowning, trying to remember. 

I’d never met the youngest Targaryens. I’d ventured off the Island only a few times in my life, and only once south of Winterfell. I’d been present at Rhaegar’s coronation in King’s Landing, a new lord in my own right, drawn down by the spectacle of our lauded, heroic dragon king, but his younger brother and sister were still just children at the time, living at Dragonstone, where they’d been secreted away from Aerys, for fear their mad father would impulsively burn them in their sleep.

But how many years ago was Rhaegar’s coronation? I’d lost track…

“She’s Lyra’s age. Nineteen,” Dacey corrected, reminding me, “There was a wedding feast for Ned and Catelyn Stark that year but Mother wouldn’t leave the Island, as her time was too close.” 

“Aye,” I mumbled, not doubting her word but finding the idea that Daenerys Targaryen was a grown woman, albeit still a young maid, hard to imagine, nonetheless. 

I’d pictured her in my head as an orphan child for so long—sad and silver-haired, motherless, fatherless—it was hard to picture anything else.

There was a long moment’s silence between Dacey and I, as I was lost in my own thoughts and Dacey was still staring at that message. She looked at me finally, giving up, wetting her lips before asking, 

“But why you?” Her voice held no sneer of judgment. She just asked it plainly. 

Dacey was never afraid to ask the blunt question. All my cousins would do the same, once they read that letter. And this question was blunter than most, as there’d been no precursor to this. Neither Rhaegar Targaryen, nor any of his household, had ever visited our Island. At times, I assumed King’s Landing forgot that Bear Island existed at all. 

And I’d certainly made no indication that I was looking marry again. If anything, my sights were turning too often to Castle Black.

Besides, even if I’d been willing to entertain the odd thought or the unexpected honor, there was still absolutely no conceivable reason why Daenerys Targaryen should be married off to man almost twenty years her senior from a minor house with no wealth, perched on a remote island in the midst of a cold, northern sea.

We had no ties to King’s Landing except through Winterfell. We were a vassal house, sworn to wolves, and dragons only because our Northern lord said it must be so. We made our living from fish in the sea, timber from the woods and not much else. Our family name was old but came with little else of repute. 

Daenerys Targaryen was a princess of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, one of the last members of the oldest and grandest house the world had ever known, with bloodlines that traced back to Old Valyria.

“I have no idea,” I shook my head again, a little anger creeping in amongst the confusion. The last line of Varys’s letter was patronizing and seemed to anticipate this: _Do not think to ignore these summons._

But was he mocking me? And what purpose would that serve? Or was he serious and ordering me to King’s Landing like a servant boy? Pride was not something that I clung too with any strength. My pride, what little I had to begin with, was lost a long time ago. For how can you hope to claim pride in anything if your foolhardy actions lead to the death of someone you love?

And yet, I naturally bristled at these summons. They could search our family tree from branch to root and find the same thing. No Mormont liked to be told where he must go and who he must wed, no matter who she might be.

_Daenerys Targaryen._

“‘Lord Jorah Mormont of Bear Island is to wed Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen’…,” Dacey huffed through that line before casting the message to my desk with a flick of her hand, her features sparking with dark amusement. “They’re quite certain of themselves, aren’t they?”

I could manage another nod, but little else, as my thoughts were scattered and useless. 

“Of course, this might make it easier to ask King Rhaegar to lower the taxes? Since the King of Westeros will be your…brother-in-law, is it?” Dacey tipped her head, her dark amusement turning into a wicked grin. I was in no mood, even before she brought in this message. 

I glowered at her, to which she just raised both hands in protest. “Please don’t take offense, Lord Mormont. It was just a humble suggestion.” She laughed outright this time, “Gods, the southern lords have lost their wits. I have to go tell Mother this.”

After Dacey left, chuckling down the hallway, I just stared at that note, and Varys’s slanted hand. I understood Dacey’s response and, if I weren’t named in that letter, perhaps I’d find the humor in it too.

Yet, I worried that there was something more sinister at play. For either myself or…perhaps the princess? 

But why? What could have happened that her brothers would force her into a marriage with a man she’d never met? With a lord who could offer her nothing? No jewels, no silk, no distinction of any kind. Not even his heart, as mine had been broken a long time ago.

My scowl darkened with the thunder that rolled outside the castle walls.


	4. Maege

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maege. Mormont.
> 
> And speaking of Maege, look for an update on "My Little Love" in the next few minutes. Because I need _all_ the Aunt Maege. In all universes <3

**_Maege_ **

_Dragons._

The thought gave me no pleasure, I can tell you that. 

Mythical beasts they might be, but even as a young girl, I’d never felt much sadness that the dragons were long gone. Give me sailors’ tales of mermaids and selkies, combing their seaweed hair on the cold seas, or rumors of snarks, fairies and hobgoblins who still dwelt in our deep woods, living in gnarled oaks and in mossy caves beneath the mountains. 

But the dragons could stay dead. I’d never had the least interest in seeing one in the flesh.

All the old books said the same thing. Dragons were ash and death, selfish and destructive. They’d set fire to the countryside at the least insult, sometimes under their own initiative, sometimes under the hot-tempered hands of their masters, the foreign-born Targaryens.

In my experience, the Targaryens were too like the dragons they once kept as pets. With family words to match.

_Fire and blood._

And now they wished to wed my nephew to one of them? The idea sat very ill with me, indeed. Dacey seemed amused by it. Lyra said she didn’t understand it at all. Alysane wondered if it wasn’t some elaborate farce, played by the southern lords, bored and fat, lounging on their plush couches in King’s Landing and coming up with bizarre ways to devise a laugh at our expense.

“Perhaps the princess is the one playing this game. Maybe she forced the eunuch to write it for her?” Alysane hypothesized, through narrowed, suspicious eyes that spoke of mistrust learned from me. 

My daughters were all pretty enough, tall and slim, with dark hair and brown eyes, ranging in shades from chestnut to honey, that they might have caught the fancy of rich, southern lords, had I encouraged it. But I’d raised them to be wary of anyone born south of Deepwood Motte, and I’m afraid the lesson took too well. 

Alysane continued, knowingly, “Southern girls are known to be fickle and cruel.”

“Not all of them,” I replied, as a mother’s reminder to her rash daughter. But silently, I agreed with her. I could count the women I trusted on the mainland on one hand. And few of them were highborn.

But no, I didn’t think this was a joke. Nor was I amused by it, like Dacey. A summons from the capital was no laughing matter. The Targaryens were a formidable house and our liege lords. They weren’t known for kind gestures or random acts of generosity. 

It was an old saying but an immoveable one—that playing with dragons was a surefire way to burn oneself. I was afraid that’s exactly what they might intend for my brother’s son.

I just didn’t know why. Why Jorah? Why Bear Island? And it was that uncertainty that bothered me most, bringing a set frown to my features that persisted for days.

“If I ignore the summons, there will be consequences. Not just for me but for all of us,” Jorah told me as the two of us lingered together, discussing the matter in the Great Hall, after I’d sent the others away. I couldn’t think in so much racket, as my girls weren’t ones to keep their opinions to themselves. They shared them, loudly and with our usual Mormont resolve. 

But this was Jorah’s decision and he had little time to make it. 

He added, but with enough doubt that I think he wished I’d contradict it, “I must go.”

“As you say,” I muttered, not liking that his words struck me as the only option. Try as I might, I could think up no other choice. It made me sullen and prone to muttering. When bears are backed into a corner, we have a tendency to start growling. I couldn’t help myself, spitting out my next words, “But they insult us as sure as they seek to honor us. You know that, don’t you?”

“Aye,” he agreed, without question. He was under no illusion that this scheme, whatever it may be, might be made in anything but bad faith. Rhaegar Targaryen was up to something. He _must_ be up to something. 

Looking at Jorah’s stern and handsome profile, I suddenly felt a maternal pain, nearly reaching out to brush my fingers through his hair as I’d done when he was a child.

It wasn’t fair that he couldn’t trust this honor to be just that—the honor of being chosen to marry the king’s sister. Oh, there was no higher honor, at least not when taken at face value, as the simple words on the scroll would have us believe. Other houses might kill for such a thing. And I’d dare to say that Jorah deserved that honor as much as any other man in Westeros. My nephew was steady and true. 

He’d shown his character early, even as a boy, but it was with poor Mara and those stillborn babes, snatched away too soon, that I witnessed just how good and selfless a man my nephew really was. 

His grief ate at him, but he never let it swallow him whole, as Jeor had. He kept the Island together and strong against the deluge of Greyjoy raids—those damn krakens never quit, no matter how many times we threw them back into the sea—and the financial ruin that the lords of the south might impose upon us. He treated my girls as equals in this house and me, as a fount of wisdom, although I’m not sure I deserved it. 

But as proud as _I_ was of Jorah and as much as _I_ knew the Targaryen girl would find no better husband the world over, Rhaegar Targaryen couldn’t know it.

He didn’t know Jorah at all. He’d met him once, maybe? The king likely had to have one of his advisors remind him of our family name when he decided to send that summons to the northwest corner of his vast kingdoms. 

And if he didn’t know Jorah, that meant he intended to wed his sister to a perfect stranger. It couldn’t be anything more than an insult to us. Or as punishment for the sister, I suppose. 

But what had she done to deserve such scorn? To be sent into exile, married off to a poor house that would never be able to match the luxury she was accustomed to in King’s Landing? My mind wandered over possibilities. Perhaps she was wild and promiscuous and threatened to tarnish her family name with reckless behavior. Perhaps she was obstinate and uncontrollable and her brother wished to have done with her. 

Perhaps she was mad, just like her father.

A mad woman roaming around Bear Island—barefoot, silver-haired and speaking gibberish. Braiding her hair with thorns and tearing her fine clothes to rags? I could picture it too easily. But my daughters and I would not play nursemaid to such a creature. Not when she was thrust upon us.

I voiced these thoughts to Jorah, as I wasn’t one to hold back, much like my girls. I was always plain-spoken with Jeor and it continued with his son. 

“You won’t have to worry about that,” Jorah assured me. “I’ll be refusing the girl as soon as I get to the capital.”

He sounded so certain and set on it. I was surprised, mild confusion taking the place of my perpetual frown. But searching my nephew’s features, I found little to explain how he intended to get out of this. Yet, he kept his own counsel. As did I. 

“If Rhaegar’s mind is made up, I think a refusal will be received no better than if you ignore these summons outright,” I cautioned, tipping my head to the scroll which rested between us on the long table, dragon seal broken, the Spider’s words no less insistent even days after a first reading. “They’ve left you little choice in the matter.”

“There’s always a choice…,” he murmured, with a severe and gloomy tone that suddenly reminded me too much of my brother. 

In fact, Jeor might have said the same thing, or something very like it, after I stood here and argued with him for hours, trying to dissuade him from leaving home to take the damn black.

“You intend to join your father at the Wall?” I guessed, with dawning clarity.

“Yes,” Jorah nodded simply. There was some grim satisfaction in his features as he said, “And our gracious King can’t refuse me that.”

 _No_ , I thought, but I liked this plan no better than his marriage to the Targaryen princess. Less, if I was being honest. I’d already lost my only brother to the crows. I would find no joy in seeing his son follow him there. It was a noble path, to be sure. But it led too far from the Island for my liking.

Jorah looked at me fondly, as he’d always done, his blue eyes filled with respect and admiration as he told me, “Bear Island would have no better protector than you, Aunt.”

He wasn’t flattering me. And he wasn’t being facetious. Jorah had never learned the art of pretense or a silk tongue, which gladdened my heart. He was too used to speaking blunt truth to try anything else. And I’m sure I could manage Bear Island well enough…

But we already had a lord and protector. And he was a steady one, good and strong, respected by our people, loved by all. If there was fault in him, it was that he was too serious and held too closely to old grief. But that was a northern trait and a Mormont family tradition.

“I wish you’d reconsider, Jorah,” I was careful not to command him. He wasn’t my son, although Julia died too early to finish the job herself and there was no one but me to fill that role for him. I couldn’t replace his mother. I would never try. 

But it was a mother’s heart breaking now, at the thought of that golden-haired little boy who used to run up and bring me treasures from the damp woods and rushing streams—toads and feathers and pebbles and wildflowers—would be leaving us. First to King’s Landing and then to don the mourning garb of a man who could no longer face his own grief.

“I’d be a poor husband to that girl anyway,” he mentioned, in a self-deprecating manner that was too sincere. “So it’s better that I do this now. I’ve been thinking on it for some time and it seems the gods have made the decision for me.”

None of that was true. The Targaryen girl couldn’t know the sort of man that her brother paired her with. I considered it again—she’d find no better. At least not when it came to giving a woman the respect and freedom that she deserved. 

And as for the gods, there was less mysticism in this and more the capricious whims of a dragon.

 _Dragons_. I thought again, stopping myself from giving a rueful shake of the head. I was conflicted. I despised the thought of Jorah going to Castle Black, but the thought of him willingly entangling himself with that family…

“You’ll leave in the morning, then?” I asked, knowing better than to try to sway my nephew one way or another. If he was to change his mind, it would have to be on his own. He was a Mormont, after all. 

“Might as well,” he replied, with a little resignation. And a little more practicality. “The wind’s not always with us this time of year. Autumn will be here soon enough. There’s no reason to delay.” 

_I’d have you delay this foolhardy plan indefinitely_ …I remember using these words on Jeor. 

They didn’t work on the father, so I didn’t bother trying them on the son.

Mara Glover had taken a piece of Jorah’s soul with her when she died. Those three stillborn babes, buried in tiny graves up on the hillside above the Keep, took a little more. And Julia—well, Jorah’s mother had taken the bear’s share of all the bright, summer-kissed happiness that once dared dance across this Island. 

I’m not a woman taken by flights of fancy but sometimes, I’d swear I heard her singing down the east hallway or out in the yard behind the kitchens. Even now, thirty years after her death. Foolish woman that I was, I’d follow that familiar sound, knowing it was nonsense but having to confirm she wasn’t there, nonetheless. 

No wonder Jeor had to leave. Julia’s ghost would never give up her haunt—of this island, of this house, of our hearts. She’d been too full of life and her death had been too sudden, shocking all of us. All these years later, and I still felt like something had been severed from House Mormont that we’d never be able to regain.

_Joy. Laughter. Singing._

With Jorah’s departure, I was worried that the severing continued.

But to Jorah, I only said, “Safe travels, nephew. Be careful among the dragons.”


	5. Barristan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little #Bashara while we wait for the awkward lobsters to finally meet <3

**_Barristan_ **

I was halfway down the grand, winding staircase of the Red Keep, when Ashara found me. 

She must have been waiting for me to come down, for she met me on one of the wider landings, appearing from behind a marble column which braced the archway of the inner corridors, to step out beneath a golden dome that spanned the high, garishly-painted ceilings far above our heads. She moved with silence and grace, befitting the stars’ favorite daughter. 

She said nothing on the staircase save her usual, “Good morning, Ser Barristan,” but the sharp and urgent movement of her lavender eyes bade me come with her, as she led us to a familiar alcove just off the landing. 

I wouldn’t think to ignore her, _ever_ , although I was late already, having been delayed by Prince Viserys and some phantom offense he’d suffered, found in the bawdy lyrics of a Braavosi minstrel who played for the king’s household the prior evening. Viserys wanted the matter dealt with by the end of the day, hoping to enlist the Kingsguard to throw the minstrel into a dank dungeon until he apologized or his throat grew hoarse enough that he’d never sing again.

I would have reminded him, once again, that we weren’t the _Prince_ guard and that he likely would forget all about his grievance by tomorrow afternoon in favor of another. But there was little to be gained from the effort and, as I said, I was late already.

Lord Jorah Mormont of Bear Island had arrived in the city. 

By the king’s command, it fell to me to meet him at the gate, although I’m sure Lord Varys would greet the king’s honored guest first. I expect he was down there already, his hands hidden away in those massive sleeves of his, eyes peeled and ears open. The Master of Whisperers fought his battles with words and information, rather than a sword, so it was in his best interest to meet new faces and learn new secrets as soon as possible.

But I veered off my course willingly, joining my raven-haired lady behind a wooden screen, adorned with ivy and green things soaking up light through the massive windows built around the spiraling staircase. We were as discreet as ever, but in habit, I looked behind us. 

And seeing no one, I immediately took her hand and kissed it as soon as we were beyond the sight of prying eyes. 

She grinned on my token of affection, amused, I think, at the chasteness. But warmed by it too, as it was a promise of more to come, and a memory of more already shared. The elegant halls of King’s Landing rarely saw anything but chaste gestures from us. 

A stolen glance here, a stolen kiss there. 

But we’d be in Starfall by the end of the month and there was little to steal on the edge of the Summer Sea. Not when Ashara gave me her kisses so freely and I gave her all of my own in return. The servants of House Dayne never failed to bring up two trays to Lady Ashara’s bedchambers on the morning after our arrival. And every morning thereafter.

Ashara had decided to make a trip home, and said she’d be leaving just after Daenerys’s marriage. I think it was her silent form of protest, as she told me the whole matter sat very ill with her—she was frustrated by what the king and his brother were doing to their sister, but could do little to stop it. 

None of us could.

Adept at court manners, Ashara cordially invited the king’s household along, knowing that Elia would come and that the Targaryens would decline the offer. As expected, Rhaegar gave a thin but polite “No,” while Viserys scoffed at the very notion of a Dornish holiday, before falling into fits of high-pitched laughter which reverberated shrilly throughout the castle. 

But Rhaenys and Aegon were delighted to be headed for the white beaches of the Summer Sea, even if they were both crestfallen that Daenerys would not be able to come this time. She would be on her way north with her new husband. But I would join them. Whenever the king’s children left the capital, a member of the Kingsguard was sent with them. 

And when the destination was Sunspear or Starfall, the happy lot often fell to me. 

Ashara’s brother, Arthur, would have been the other choice—but Rhaegar rarely parted with his favorite guardian. In his position, I wouldn’t either. Arthur Dayne was Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, the Sword of the Morning and the greatest swordsman living. He was an imposing threat to any would-be assassins. 

I could hold my own against him, but only just. And sometimes I think he went easier on me in the practice ring, for his sister’s sake. Although, if Arthur truly knew how Ashara and I carried on, both here and in the house they both grew up in, he never said. At least not to me.

We were careful in King’s Landing, as it took very little to start rumors and I was a member of the Kingsguard for life. Sworn to never marry or father children. And I kept to those oaths, at least.

But the vow implied chastity, and I couldn’t hold to that. Not for many years now. Not since Harrenhal and Lord Whent’s tourney, held during the false spring, when Rhaegar took victory on the field and his father’s crown in all but name. 

I took nothing but a dance with Ashara Dayne late in the evening, followed by a passionate night spent in her sweet company.

That was not our last night together. No, indeed. And if I broke my vows at Harrenhal, I continued to break them now. I intended to break them for the rest of my life. 

I defy any man to share a dance with Ashara and keep to any vow that wouldn’t let him touch her again. Especially as her lavender eyes flooded with laughter and she stretched out her hand to draw me near, her wise and tempting smile breaking across beautiful, beaming features… 

As she smiled now, leaning up to plant a single kiss on my cheek before settling on her heels once more. Our hands didn’t linger together and came away within moments, on the slip of a ghosting caress. The rules we imposed upon ourselves had been in place for long enough that we didn’t think twice about them. 

Besides, I knew she’d beckoned me over for more than a kiss. Her expression turned grave, her smile fading away as she brought me news of the princess.

“Daenerys is a wreck of nerves,” she told me. “She’s put on a brave face but when we’re not watching, I’ve seen her wringing her hands with anxiousness. She doesn’t want this but she has no way out. When you meet with him, urge him to be gentle with her. And patient…”

“Of course,” I answered. I would have done it anyway, holding my own fondness for the young princess—and Ashara knew this. I wondered why she felt compelled to procure this promise from me. But then I saw the flicker of uncertainty pass her features and realized that perhaps it wasn’t only our princess who was nervous about the events of the day. I asked, “Are you rethinking the choice of groom?”

“No,” she replied, instantly. I knew she wasn’t as sure as her simple response might indicate. But I agreed heartily with her next words, “There was no other choice. Rhaegar was set on a Northern lord and the other option was unthinkable.”

“And you said Jorah Mormont might be a good match. Perhaps better than Daenerys could expect,” I reminded her. She’d been the one to float his name first, giving the idea to her brother, who then used his influence to convince the king. All over Viserys’s noisy objections, as he was quite set on another. 

But Rhaegar made the final decision. He trusted Arthur’s judgment over his own brother’s. And Arthur trusted Ashara.

He’d be a fool not to. 

“Yes, but what if he’s terrible? What if I’ve only made things worse for her?” Ashara admitted her fears, with a tense sigh. 

These regrets were misplaced but I understood why she suddenly second-guessed herself. It was one thing to think of the match abstractly, avoiding calamity for the girl by offering the lesser of two evils. It was another to be faced with the reality, and the notion that there would be a wedding today. Between two strangers. Our princess married off to a man none of us knew. 

She said it outright, “I don’t know him, Barristan. None of us do.”

“His father is a good man and well respected,” I was repeating myself. We’d had this conversation twice over. These were her words that I parroted back. “The Mormonts are steadfast and loyal to a fault. It’s in their family words. They are pledged to House Stark, which is steeped in nobility. We’ve never heard of any dishonor brought upon their house. Nor are they known for cruelty.”

“Lack of cruelty isn’t the only thing to expect in a marriage,” Ashara grumbled, shaking her head ruefully on the fact that we were having this conversation at all. The princess deserved better. Ashara stopped short of accusing our king, but she allowed, “It isn’t fair to be denied the chance to love who we choose.”

She looked at me with no less affection than when we first danced together at Harrenhal, all those many years ago. So many suitors had offered their hands and hearts to Ashara during that false spring, and in all the years that followed, but she turned each and every one of them down, no matter their wealth, no matter their family name. 

The court gossip said she was too independent to submit to a man’s will. Or that she spent too many of her early years in mourning and it turned her heart cold—that’s how they excused it. A mother and father dead before she was eighteen, a brother sworn to the Kingsguard for the rest of his life, an ancestral house that became hers to provide for and protect. Even at such a young age. 

Still, I thought she would have married in the end. I expected it and prepared myself for it. But she never did.

 _If I married anyone, it would be you. And as I can’t, I never shall_ , she whispered to me, on one of many nights that I spent in her bed.

“Love blooms in unexpected places,” I said, stopping myself from reaching out to take her wrist. “And she’s stronger than she looks. She’s the daughter of dragons. She’s a survivor.”

She nodded slowly, less than convinced. Bells were ringing in the distance, heralding the upcoming wedding. She sighed again and cast a glance behind us, “I best get back before I’m missed. But just ask him to treat her gently.”

“I will,” I replied, and found myself risking just a little more than usual. The chime of those bells and the glow of the summer sun, filtering down from the great dome, cast us in cathedral light and sound, too idyllic to ignore. I pulled Ashara near and kissed her forehead, releasing her after only a heartbeat. I felt her hand come to rest on my armored breastplate but then it was gone again.

We parted too soon. It was always too soon. In King’s Landing, this wasn’t to be helped. 

But as Ashara turned back once, to smile her farewell, I was kept to task by the glorious promise that we’d be in Starfall by month’s end.

* * *

When I arrived at the gate, Jorah Mormont was speaking with Lord Varys. All the usual formal greetings were made and inane pleasantries were exchanged. We asked after his journey and he replied that the road had been easy, as the summer weather was holding for the present, even north of White Harbor.

“You’ll have snow up on Bear Island soon, I’d imagine?” I mentioned, knowing that the northernmost houses saw dustings and frost even on the tail end of summer.

“Aye,” he answered plainly. “It comes early for us. But our maester is predicting a long and mild autumn.”

“The princess will be pleased to hear it,” Lord Varys said, with too much wryness hiding behind the encouraging tone. The wryness won out too soon, as he added, “She’s not one for cold weather.”

The eunuch’s words were evenly spoken but a reminder that this match might be doomed from the start. Jorah Mormont seemed to know this and he just nodded along silently, with a preoccupied expression gracing his creased features.

He didn’t seem pleased to be here, nor moved by the “honor” of marrying the king’s sister. This impressed me, as that meant he wasn’t a fool. 

And since he was no fool, he must have recognized the insult of being greeted by a eunuch and a single member of the Kingsguard. He came from a minor house which rarely, if ever, made appearances in the capital, but he was to wed Princess Daenerys, of House Targaryen, in the Sept of Baelor, a mere hour or so from now. 

The fact that Rhaegar didn’t greet him upon arrival, or at least send Viserys in his place, was telling. It meant that Jorah Mormont was beneath notice and that this marriage was no more the king’s honor than the flick of the wrist that Rhaegar used to dismiss his royal tailor after the man was finished taking measurements.

The bells were ringing but this was pretense, for the sake of the common people. I’d been told the marriage was to happen directly and Daenerys was to leave the city with her new husband by tomorrow evening, at the latest. The Targaryens wanted this matter done and over with as swiftly as possible.

I wasn’t one to question the whims of the king or the prince, but this whole affair was hard to swallow, as I couldn’t think of anything Daenerys might have done that would have justified what was about to happen to her.

She was a lively girl and had a tendency to speak her mind, but I’d never seen her act with anything less than decorum. And for a Targaryen, that’s rare.

Lord Varys excused himself and scuttled away to speak with a herald about how Lord Mormont’s name and title should be announced at the ceremony and whether he was to be presented to the king in the Throne Room or ushered directly to the Sept of Baelor.

While we waited, just the two of us, I chose my moment to soften Jorah Mormont towards his new bride. 

“Princess Daenerys is a bit nervous about all of this, as you might expect,” I told him, noting how his eyes fell to his boots at her name. He was bashful and reluctant, it seemed. I could understand. He knew no more about the woman he was to marry than she knew about him. I stressed, “She’s a kind-hearted young woman, full of life, a little stubborn perhaps. But this is all rather sudden so if you could be patient with her, I think—”

“You needn’t worry, Ser Barristan. Nor should she,” the man interjected, with assurance. His gaze flickered up and met mine directly, blue eyes filled to the brim with raw sincerity. “I’ve come to turn down the king’s…honor.”

The pause was well-placed. But was that sarcasm? From a Mormont?

My eyes narrowed a little at the sureness in his tone. He couldn’t be thinking of defying his king? I countered, “From what I’ve been told, King Rhaegar didn’t give you a choice, my lord.”

Even on very short acquaintance, this man didn’t seem to be dimwitted. But his words were brazen, foolishly brave things. He must know better. Even a poor lord from a wild corner of the kingdom should know the consequences of going against the king’s edict.

“I intend to join the Night’s Watch,” he explained, with a finality in his raspy voice that tore at me a little. There was a mournful note in it that I didn’t expect and wondered at. Jorah Mormont had been married once before. And they say Jeor Mormont took the black for grief. Was his son intending the same thing? 

Jorah continued, “If you could arrange a meeting with His Grace, I’d like to make my intentions known as soon as possible. I’ve been considering this for some time and want to make sure he understands it has little to do with these summons. But there’s no reason to waste more time and it’s better for both of us. The princess will then be free and can choose a husband as she likes.”

“But you…,” I regarded the man, in awe of his practical approach to all of this. 

_Ah_ , I thought, as his intentions became clear. He could have sent a raven from Bear Island but came in person so as to make sure the king accepted his decision. And to make sure the “honor” was not so glibly spurned, saving the princess from the embarrassment of being rejected by a few lines in a letter from a lesser lord. That was admirable. 

Yet, I felt a little sorry for him in that moment. He didn’t understand this city. Or the dragons. He seemed out of place here, and in the lordly clothes he wore—which lacked the gaudier colors and trimmings of fashions in King’s Landing. There was no mistaking him for a northern lord, a poor one at that, who could barely afford to show up looking presentable among the royals of Westeros. 

And he seemed weary. Part of this was likely from his travels on the road, but there was a shadow over his features that spoke of other things. Old wounds, buried grief. 

He was courteous but firm. Strong-willed and serious. Still young—or younger than me anyway—but evidently world-weary, and a little sad. I suddenly had the rash, romantic idea that Daenerys might be the best thing for him.

Ashara would be glad to hear it.

But she’d also kill me if I didn’t speak up now, and quickly, cautioning him against doing what he intended. 

Jorah was too clever in his plan, as the king would be unable to refuse him. There were few avenues to usurp the will of the king, but the Night’s Watch was one of them. 

And once Jorah made clear that he would be taking the black, Daenerys would be left without a groom. If Lord Mormont thought that meant that Daenerys might be given her own choice of a replacement, he was _woefully_ unprepared for how things were done in King’s Landing.

“My lord, I would ask that you reconsider.”

“I’m afraid my mind is made up.” 

“Not for your sake, but for the princess,” I appealed to a knightly sense of empathy that I hoped he held close. For my own part, I have to say that a damsel in distress would always sway me to action. Especially if the damsel in question had violet-colored eyes and a pretty smile. Perhaps Jorah Mormont was the same? But, of course, he hadn’t met her yet.

I continued, “She’ll not be able to choose her own husband if you refuse, my lord. You are the first choice but there is another waiting in the wings who would be only too happy to come fetch a young bride.”

“Who?” Jorah’s eyes turned a shade stormy, as my words complicated what he thought would be a simple decision. And the tone in my voice must have given away the type of man who was next in line to take the princess’s hand.

Another widower, another northern lord. But in temperament and reputation, they couldn’t be more different.

“Roose Bolton,” I revealed flatly, satisfied to see a shadow of doubt flicker across Jorah Mormont’s face on the name. 

This was the name that Viserys had been set on, having made friends with Bolton’s bastard years ago. Ramsay was barred from the capital for reasons that Rhaegar had never divulged to the rest of us, but Viserys still visited the Dreadfort now and again. 

Ashara had been spurred to action when she first heard the choice, begging Arthur to offer Rhaegar the name of Jorah Mormont instead, as she wouldn’t wish a stray dog on Lord Bolton. I would think Rhaegar wouldn’t either but he’d been considering Viserys’s suggestion too seriously for comfort. 

Roose Bolton’s reputation was known throughout the Seven Kingdoms, but in the north most of all, where the flayed man on his fluttering banners reminded his neighbors of what kind of man Lord Bolton was. Jorah Mormont swallowed hard on the name.

I told him plainly, “Should you fail to wed the princess, they have a raven set to fly to the Dreadfort this very day.”


	6. Daenerys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jorah: 1  
> Viserys & Rhaegar: 0
> 
> XD

**_Daenerys_ **

I told Elia and the others that I had to take a walk. 

I’m sure Viserys gave firm instructions that I was to be kept locked in my chamber until the hour of my wedding, thinking I might try to run away or throw myself off the highest tower of the Red Keep or something just as rash and dramatic, but he wasn’t present. 

And besides, I didn’t ask. I _told_ them, and who could deny me anything that morning?

My brothers were about to hand me over to a stranger, sending me away from my family and friends, to a far flung corner of the Kingdoms, located leagues and leagues north of Winterfell, a place that I didn’t know existed until recently. I’d given it little thought but always assumed Winterfell must be the very top of the world, so close to the Wall that they’d become indistinguishable in my head.

Cold, harsh, unforgiving, buried in snow. A place of rough men, cruel manners and long winters. 

I found myself shivering at the thought of living in such a feral and untamed place. And my heart sank after I sought out a map from the maesters and found out that the land I was bound for was not only _far_ north of Winterfell, but a sparse, little island in a sea called the Bay of Ice, within reach of wildling country and the Frozen Shore.

“It’s a place of savages and man-eating bears.” Viserys took great pleasure in telling me this, his eyes sparking with mischief, as he continued, “Jorah Mormont is a sullen, severe man and ugly as an old bear. They say he killed his first wife, little sister. So be sure to watch your smart mouth around him.”

_Jorah Mormont, of Bear Island._

I was restless the night before the wedding and couldn’t sleep. At the window of my bedchamber, I looked out over the starlit city and said the man’s name out loud a few times, quietly, to myself, as a whisper to the balmy night air.

“Jorah Mormont,” the whisper became too much like a prayer, as I begged him to be…oh, I don’t know what I begged for, my thoughts all tangled up by the anxious musings of night and what was about to happen to me. 

I wasn’t so foolish as to believe my brother’s lies. He lied like other men breathed. And I knew he’d never met Lord Mormont, same as me, so he was likely making most of it up.

But still, what if he was right? What if the man who came to claim me was a monstrous beast, uncouth and cruel, eager to pluck his prize from the south and drag me back to a cold cave on his frozen, desolate shores?

Elia was worried too. She told me to steel myself for the first time my husband took his pleasure. She was bluntly honest, as her own experience hadn’t been a pleasant one, and she wanted me to be prepared for the same. Or worse, should it come to that. Rhaegar had been mad at our father on his wedding night, forced into a marriage he didn’t want, and he took his rage out on his Martell bride, drunk and rough and whispering crass nothings in her ear. 

“Your brother wasn’t gentle or kind. And there was little _love_ in what he did to me on our wedding night,” Elia told me plain. She stood just behind me, braiding a simple halo back from my temples, winding long strands of my silver-blonde hair through her nimble fingers. I would wear my hair down for the ceremony, with a silver tiara held in place by those simple braids. She urged me to understand, “But I didn’t struggle and it was over soon enough.”

“How could you stand it?” I asked her, feeling hot anger stir in my breast, for her sake. Even if years too late. Rhaegar’s unfeeling ways had apparently begun early. 

I fidgeted as she finished my hair, just as I’d been fidgeting all morning, playing with a single rose that lay across my lap. I twirled the long stem nervously, snow-white petals dancing like the frills of a ball gown under the spin of my fingers. The spin was dizzying and nearly made me dizzy watching it.

“I had no choice, Daenerys,” she answered with resignation, as she deftly affixed a second pin at the back of my head, to hold the braids in place. I looked up from the spinning rose petals to the mirror just in front of me, in time to watch Elia’s gaze flicker to Ashara, who was sitting nearby, on the short bench beneath the tower window, one knee crossed over the other, elbow resting on her knee, and chin resting in her hand. Elia added, “Few of us do.”

Elia and Ashara had been best friends since they were young girls. They had no secrets and Ashara was not surprised by Elia’s confession, having heard it years and years ago. Her lavender eyes held old sympathy, for Elia. But a good deal more _new_ sympathy, for me. She broke her stare with Elia to find mine in the mirror. 

Our eye color in this light was so similar as to be almost the same, and, if not for her raven-black hair, I might have been looking at my own reflection.

Ashara gave a small shrug, promising nothing, but hoping for everything, “It’s possible that he surprises you. In a good way.”

“Yes,” Elia agreed. “But it’s better to be prepared for the worst.”

I appreciated Ashara’s attempt at optimism and Elia’s more pragmatic manner. They balanced each other out and I desperately needed balance. I was a mess of emotions, plagued by uncertainty, unsure of everything. I didn’t know the man—not one, single detail. 

Except his name: _Jorah Mormont of Bear Island._

I didn’t know what he looked like or the sound of his voice. I had no way to know how my life was about to change and whether that change would be for better or worse, or some strange combination of the two.

Which is why I decided to take a walk. To clear my head, to seek solace…somewhere.

I told Elia and Ashara that I wouldn’t be long and promised that I wouldn’t wander far. I took that rose with me, as I found my hands needed something to occupy their attentions or I’d start wringing my hands again, eaten up by nerves.

I could have run to the Sept and thrown myself down before the ivory statue of the Mother, praying for divine mercy. I could have run from the Red Keep out into the bustling streets of King’s Landing, joining the morning crowd on a fool’s hope that I might escape the city without being dragged back to my brothers. 

But I sought the only thing that might give me peace of mind in that moment. 

I sought _him_. The man I was going to marry, to see him in the flesh and decide for myself if I was bound for hell or a safe haven.

Viserys had been adamant that I not see him before the ceremony. But hang Viserys and hang Rhaegar, I would at least see the man I was to marry. If this was all I could manage as protest against the whole thing, then so be it. 

I would _see_ him. I would _hear_ his voice.

And I knew how I would do it.

While Elia was fiddling with the delicate lace on my gown, I’d heard Ser Barristan return to us, and watched Ashara rise from her seat by the window to join him in the hall. Their words were hushed but I heard Ser Barristan tell her that they’d taken Lord Mormont to the Throne Room, to be formally presented to my brother. 

And so, dressed in my wedding gown and carrying that single, white rose, I rushed through the corridors and royal apartments of Maegor’s Holdfast to a hidden staircase that I knew well. I’d found it when I was still a little girl, hiding from Viserys’s wrath in every secret passageway or hidden room I could find. 

The staircase led down to a hidden lookout in the wall of the Throne Room, with a two way mirror that the servants used during formal ceremonies, to know when they should jump to their lord’s assistance, without the necessity of his summons.

At the base of the stairs, I took off my shoes and crept up to the face of the small mirror, quietly, careful not to betray my presence, although this room was made for secret spying like this. I could see Rhaegar clearly, in his kingly robes, all red and black brocade, with his crown twined by the fierce twist of open-mouthed dragons. Viserys stood at his left and Ser Arthur Dayne on his right. Lord Varys was hovering a little further back.

A tall man stood before them, just below the king’s dais, but his broad back was turned towards me. I could make out only the color of his red-blond hair, curling a little at his ears and neck, and the way he stood before my brothers—strong, tall and without cower.

“…and I’ve instructed Ser Arthur to knight you, although I’m aware the northern houses don’t hold to these southern honors,” Rhaegar was speaking, almost smugly. He leaned on the side of his iron chair lazily, taking in the sight of his subject with casual indifference. He noted, “A man who marries the king’s sister should be a knight at the very least. Even if it’s a knighthood given by the king’s leave instead of true valor.”

Rhaegar’s words betrayed a superiority and haughty disdain that must have needled the man. It certainly needled me, enough that I’d pressed the rose stem too tightly in my fist, discovering a thorn that the gardener must have missed. I almost cried out at the sting of that thorn piercing my skin but swallowed it back, lifting my injured finger to my mouth quickly, tasting a little blood for my trouble.

But he shouldn’t have said that. He didn’t _need_ to say that. Rhaegar was the one who sent for Lord Mormont. Not the other way around.

“That won’t be necessary, Your Grace,” Lord Mormont replied, in a gruff and honeyed rasp that—no, I won’t deny it—sent butterflies through my stomach immediately. For this was the voice of my _husband_ , or the man who would be my husband by the end of the day. And I’d just heard it for the first time in my life. 

It wasn’t an unpleasant voice. No, not at all. And I found the words that he spoke and the strong tone he used with his king to be captivating—was he refusing Rhaegar? No one ever refused Rhaegar.

“It wasn’t a request, Lord Mormont,” my brother, the King, remained genteel but patronizing. If he heard refusal, he ignored it. He seemed more amused than anything, at the note of pride he heard in the voice of this poor lord from the north. “I’m afraid your titles are currently…unimpressive. And less than appropriate for the husband of the king’s sister. You must be knighted. It’s not a negotiation.”

“Would you dare try to claim Princess Daenerys Targaryen as a mere country lord?” Viserys sneered, using my name vainly, as I don’t think he cared for it at all, except to make his point. He took a few steps down from the throne dais, thinking an aggressive descent might add weight to his insult. 

This was a mistake, as descending to the level floor made it clear that Lord Mormont was about a foot taller than him, twice as broad too, and suddenly Viserys was forced to look up at the man, instead of looking down on him, as he preferred.

Recognizing his mistake, Viserys took a fumbling step back up the stairs, but he moved too erratically and nearly tripped. I watched Rhaegar’s bejeweled fingers slowly drum the iron arm of the throne and he inhaled through his nose, loud enough that I could hear him even in my hidden room. Viserys took the hint and said nothing more, returning to our brother’s side, before his scramble became even more undignified.

Jorah Mormont waited to reply until Viserys found his footing again and he had the grace not to mention it. 

The northern lord’s voice remained calm as he addressed Rhaegar, frankly, “I understand, Your Grace. But I was already knighted many years ago by Ser Brynden Tully at Winterfell, for a service rendered to his niece.”

“Indeed…,” Rhaegar’s hand came away from the arm of the Iron Throne at this revelation and his patronizing smile finally disappeared. His forefinger ran along his lips, nodding on the man’s words but I read my brother’s harsh features better than most. He had a vision of how this meeting would go and Lord Mormont was undermining that vision too easily.

Neither of my brothers liked when they were undermined. Especially by some lessor lord whose entire holdfast was worth less than one of the rings on Rhaegar’s fingers.

“ _Ser_ Jorah Mormont of Bear Island,” Rhaegar continued, unable to contradict it. The Blackfish was in the Riverlands and why would Lord Mormont lie? He asked him, “You don’t sign your correspondence this way?”

“As you say, my lord, the North finds less honor in a knighthood,” Lord Mormont answered flatly. “We don’t tend to stand on ceremony.”

 _Oh._ I thought, surprised at the subtle bite in Jorah Mormont’s words. 

He was careful with both the tone and form, as he stood before the King of Westeros, but there was a fierceness and fearlessness to this man that I found intriguing. That fearlessness nearly radiated from him, in his proud poise, in his calm demeanor and the steadiness in his voice. There was an old nobility about him that contrasted sharply with my brothers—Rhaegar slouching on his throne, Viserys twitching by his side. 

My hand had begun to spin the rose again, and I waited, on pins and needles, anxious for Lord Mormont to turn around, as I had yet to see his face.

 _Ugly as an old bear_ …Viserys had said. 

“Speaking of ceremonies, Ser,” Rhaegar stressed the title. “The Sept of Baelor awaits the honor of your presence.”

He said no more, dismissing Lord Mormont curtly. And Lord Mormont dipped his head without second thought, perhaps as happy to be done with my brothers as they seemed to be done with him.

Viserys was already striding out towards the far end of the throne room, his mood obviously darkened. I would be missed if I didn’t return to my chamber soon, as he was likely going to fetch me. But I couldn’t leave quite yet.

_Ser Jorah Mormont of Bear Island, I would see your face…_

I found myself so nervous and my heart raced as I waited, not-so-patiently. As he turned…

There was no one in the gallery behind him—or no one he could see anyway—so I expect he did little to hide his true feelings in that moment. And in his weathered, but handsome features, I found only sadness and weariness and a fervent desire to be home again.

_Home._

I don’t know how I could read this desire in his expression so easily. Even then. But the idea rushed into my head and would not leave, binding itself to the man’s noble features. 

This was fitting as there would come a time, not so far from now, when those two concepts—home and Jorah Mormont—would mean nearly the same thing for me.


	7. Jorah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A baby in one universe, a wedding in another. That's the Jorleesi way 😘
> 
> And many thanks to my fave wedding photographer for catching such a gorgeous shot of the happy (oh, they'll be happy soon) couple ❤️

**_Jorah_ **

As the years go by, I’ve found I can no longer remember exactly what I was expecting as I waited in the Sept of Baelor for Daenerys to be brought in. 

At least, not with any clarity. 

There was a crowd in the inner sept, a hodge-podge of lords and commoners alike, all chatting in low murmurs that raised a din in that holy place, serenaded further by the tolling of bells. I knew none but my own party, which was small, just a handful of Bear Islanders who travelled with me, and Ser Barristan Selmy, who I’d met at the gate. The famous knight was dressed in his white cloak and ceremonial armor, and stood beneath a bronze-and-marble archway, speaking with a dark-haired woman, a lady of court, who nodded along and looked my way twice with a curious, but not unkind, look on her elegant face. 

I hadn’t brought any of my cousins with me, as I’d been expecting to give the king a short answer and then head back north to make arrangements to join the Night’s Watch with immediate effect. As I told Maege before I left, there was no reason to delay.

Instead, I found myself at a wedding. _My_ wedding. And I’d yet to see the girl I was to marry. 

I remember that I was calm and resigned to that fact. I felt numb all over, as I’d been left with no other choice. I certainly couldn’t let _any_ woman, mad or not, rich or poor, princess or servant girl, be handed over to the care and affection of Lord Roose Bolton. Not if I could help it.

I may have been a poor choice for the princess, and I had my flaws, as much as any man. And perhaps she’d be no better off with me.

But Roose Bolton was ruthless, born without pity or mercy in his soul. He’d raised a heinous son whose reputation for cruelty and sadism eclipsed his father. Dacey was convinced that Ramsay Snow murdered Roose’s older, trueborn son in cold blood. And Alysane told me that if only half the rumors were true about what Ramsay did to the girls in his father’s household, his soul was condemned to the darkest hells.

If what Ser Barristan said was true, Daenerys’s brothers were worse than cruel themselves. And gods, I couldn’t think of anything that would justify sending their sister to the Dreadfort.

Perhaps she was mad, after all. And they wished to hide her madness away somewhere? In many ways, that made it worse. And I decided that whatever the defects they held against her, the young woman would at least be safe on Bear Island.

Safer than here, it seemed.

And so I stood up there before the altar awaiting my bride’s arrival, before gods that weren’t my own, beneath a dome that spanned a massive chamber of alabaster, gold and ivory. All the opulence of the kings of old was gathered here, in this grand city so far from the wild and rugged coast I called my home. 

I remember thinking that Rhaegar might be wiser to sell off some of this extravagant gilding instead of taxing his lesser houses so heavily. He’d certainly turn a better profit. 

But my thoughts on how our high lords lived their lofty existence was too tightly wrapped with the knowledge that I’d never be able to match the lifestyle that Daenerys Targaryen had become accustomed to. Not in a thousand years. 

I felt shabby and broken down, laughably ill-chosen for this match. I must have thought about striding from that sept a dozen times, risking the wrath of dragons and a collective gasp from that crowd.

_They have a raven set to fly to the Dreadfort this very day._

I swallowed back the bristling pride of bears and ignored all those feelings of inadequacy, keeping my demeanor neutral and my stance steadfast, as I continued waiting for the princess to arrive.

The princess, my _bride_. 

Years later, Daenerys would ask me what I was thinking when I first saw her, as I turned at the sound of those heavy double doors scraping stone and watched her enter the sept on her brother’s arm. The chatter in the tiered chamber faded away quickly, with only the bells high above us to give sound to her entrance. 

She tells me that the look that passed my features in that moment is one she turns over in her head often, as it still makes her blush. 

Just as she blushed then, at whatever she saw in my expression, and it colored her cheeks so prettily that I remember wondering if the gods were playing games with me. 

Stunning violet eyes and long silver-blonde hair, a lithe form and a comely face. A sweet expression that sparked with uncertainty and nervousness. I’d always been told that the Targaryens were known for their beauty but Daenerys was so…

“I thought you were the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen,” I admitted it plainly when she asked, having no reason to lie to her and no will either. At the time, she was holding one of our children in her arms and she grinned at my answer, evidently confirming what she already guessed.

I daresay any man in my position would have felt the same. 

That day in the sept, I found myself swallowing hard at her entrance. She was a vision in white and lavender, with a silver tiara crowning her hair. The princess of Westeros walked straight towards me and more than the shabbiness I’d felt earlier, I suddenly felt wholly unworthy to be standing in this place, about to be bound to a woman who looked like _that_. 

Yet, maybe she was as vain and haughty as her brothers, a cruel spirit hiding behind an angelic face? Beauty was so often a trick of smoke and mirrors. 

King Rhaegar gave his sister away as if in afterthought. He neglected to kiss her cheek, as was custom and seemed inconvenienced by the short walk from the double doors to the altar. His gaze was drifting over his subjects as he walked in, lighting up only as he saw noteworthy faces in the audience. He pulled his arm away prematurely and left Daenerys to walk those last few steps alone.

On instinct, I stepped forward and reached out for the girl’s hand, so that she was steady as she lifted the skirt of her gown an inch and climbed the final set of stairs to stand beside me, the stranger who would soon be her husband.

The feel of her small hand sliding into my much larger one was not unpleasant. 

Standing so near, I found I towered over the woman, just as I had towered over her brother in the throne room. She looked up at me with such a competing mix of curiosity, timidity and apprehension. I was glad to find no discernable fear there, although in her shoes, I’m not sure I could have managed it. Or offer the brave little smile that curved her lips as I took her hand.

It was just a little one and didn’t last. And yet, it was a smile nonetheless. Freely given. From a young woman who was about to be turned over to a man she knew nothing about. 

And they’d been willing to feed this lovely creature to the Boltons if I refused? 

Her smile was too open, lacking in reserve. She should guard herself with more care. The sudden wave of protectiveness that fluttered through me then was only matched by an instant attraction that I found spring to life on the cusp of that girl’s pretty smile, wishing she’d let it linger a little longer, even if it was too rashly given.

It had been a long time since I felt…

I remembered to close my gaping mouth, at least. And to soften what I assume were rather severe features, my natural glower made grimmer by weeks on the road and a morning spent in King’s Landing. I didn’t want to scare the girl further.

I still knew nothing about her. I had yet to hear her voice. But from the look on her face, I could tell this was not her scheme, nor her desire. And that stirred something in me. It appeared we were bound together already, by the fact that this wasn’t a choice for either of us. 

The septon began the ceremony without delay.

I don’t remember what the man said. Nor if I replied when I should have. I recall putting my cloak around Daenerys’s slim shoulders and the way her cheeks flushed red again as the holy man declared us one heart, one flesh and one soul.

But how could that be?

How could you be one heart if you’d never spoken two words to the other person? Or if one half of that heart was a worn out, ragged old thing?

At the septon’s final proclamation, I took Daenerys’s hand again and pressed a kiss to her knuckles, not thinking to impose upon her further. She was unsettled, that was obvious. Her fair but faint smile had faded away completely as the ceremony progressed, likely uneasy on the finality of what was happening.

My action seemed to lift her spirits by a degree and I was glad to see it. Focusing on her feelings did wonders to distract me from my own. And we were suddenly staring at each other with a deepening interest, as we both attempted to reconcile the weight of the new titles we’d just been given.

 _Husband. Wife._

The rest might have faded away as we stood there, just the two of us, wondering if…but Prince Viserys was speaking up, loudly, breaking away from his brother again, to make mischief where none was needed.

Apparently, he couldn’t help it.

“That’s not the way it’s done here, Mormont,” he insisted, in a high-pitched voice that made my skin crawl. I wondered how Daenerys stood the screeching sound of it, day after day. The prince left no room for argument. “You must _kiss_ her to finalize the ceremony. Take your prize, _Ser_ Jorah.”

My jaw moved a little as my gaze reluctantly drifted away from Daenerys to her brother. As the day wore on, I have to say, it was becoming harder for me to suppress the overwhelming urge to stride over to the Targaryen prince and knock him flat on his back. But if I gave in to that urge, I’d be rotting away in the King’s Landing dungeons within the hour and Daenerys would soon be en route to the Dreadfort. So I took a deep breath and kept my calm, not realizing that I’d kept Daenerys’s hand too, until I felt her squeeze my palm just slightly.

She said evenly, “It’s all right. I don’t mind.”

But for my ears alone she added, “I’m sorry,” as I bent down to press my lips to hers. The misery in those two words broke my heart and I knew then that this was no mad woman. Not a cruel or spoiled princess either. My heart, too rash in all things, flipped wildly on the unlikely notion that she might be as beautiful inside as those comely features promised. 

I kissed her, finding soft lips beneath mine that seemed willing enough. But with her brothers looking on, she had no other choice. Any lingering over that first kiss was only to make sure Viserys said nothing further. 

At least that’s what I told myself at the time.

When I pulled back, there was a trickling applause in the sept, from guests who likely didn’t know any better. One was Tyrion Lannister, the Imp, who had arrived just ahead of his father, sneaking into the Sept of Baelor before his herald, to observe an unlikely wedding between the princess and some unknown lord from the North. 

I’m sure it brought him much amusement, as he was known to enjoy the farcical.

But I heard nothing. I saw nothing and no one. No one but _her_. Nothing but a soft, apologetic voice in my head, echoing miserably and in a way that would continue to stir my heart from the gates of King’s Landing all the way to the shores of Bear Island.

_I’m sorry…_

* * *

There was no bedding ceremony, much to Prince Viserys’s disappointment, I’m sure.

It was a chance of fate, and the early arrival of Tywin Lannister and his sons that quickly chased the king’s attention from his sister to the only royal wedding that currently mattered to the Crown. 

The continuing alliance between Tywin Lannister and House Targaryen was more than a convenience.

It was necessity and so, having minimally attended to Daenerys’s future in whatever way seemed fit to His Grace, Rhaegar was quick to declare the thing done and wish his sister well.

“May she grant you sons,” he muttered to me with little care one way or another, bidding his sister farewell with even less. A curt nod in her direction and then the king was gone, with most of his advisors trailing after him.

I can’t say I was disappointed to have the attention shift so dramatically. In fact, I was pleased for the first time in a month or more, as this whole affair had soured me on King’s Landing for good, and I was ready to be done with it. The whole place was a damn charade and I had no wish to linger there. 

There was no feast to follow the wedding. This was excused by the fact that the royal family had spent too much on the upcoming nuptials between Prince Viserys and Cersei Lannister. No feasts, no gifts, no grand speeches. Only tearful goodbyes from Daenerys, as she hugged Elia Martell and her children farewell. 

Daenerys held onto Rhaenys for a long time, as if committing the feel of her niece’s embrace to memory, and the two young women pulled back with tears in their eyes, promising to write each other, every day if they could manage it. 

I would make sure Daenerys had as much paper and ink as she wanted as soon as we returned home.

_Home._

My home, not hers. 

I hoped she wouldn’t be too disappointed with it, but had already decided that Bear Island would fall short in her eyes. There was little to be done about it. We just didn’t have the wealth or luxury that filled these halls. We never would. My eyes swept over the halls in the Red Keep and I had to stop myself from shaking my head ruefully, at the stark, insurmountable difference.

Our Keep was hewn from pine and oak, plain and unadorned. These great alabaster pillars, inlaid with sapphires and rubies, these painted glass windows that ran from polished marble and obsidian floors to domed cathedral ceilings—it was all majestic and beautiful and worlds apart from what the princess would find on Bear Island. 

But at least she’d be far away from her brothers. Maybe that would be recompense enough? The rude dismissals and the abject cruelty I’d seen from Viserys, and even Rhaegar, was shocking to the senses. And if this is how they treated their sister publically, how worse might it be when others weren’t watching?

I had my suspicions, and they grew stronger as the day gave way to evening. 

The bedding may not have occurred, but we shared a bedchamber that night, nonetheless. Prince Viserys made sure of it. 

I’d recognized quite quickly that this whole thing was a punishment for Daenerys and wondered at it. I couldn’t imagine what she might have done to have a brother who would so willingly hand her over to a stranger.

But Viserys seemed to _delight_ in it. 

He had a hungry and greedy look on his face when he showed us to private chambers—my guest chambers, not Daenerys’s own, which had already been claimed by Cersei Lannister, as an expansion of her own set of apartments. 

Viserys need not have shown us the way, as Daenerys had lived here her whole life as well. And if it was a formality for my sake, I would have expected a servant to do it. But apparently, Viserys wanted the _honor_ of seeing his sister’s blanched features as she crossed the threshold of her new life.

“She’s all yours, Mormont,” Viserys pushed his sister my way, after grabbing her elbow and shoving her roughly to my side. I caught her without a second thought, as she might have fallen otherwise. Viserys was not gentle but Daenerys seemed unsurprised by her brother’s abuse. 

Did he treat her like this often? 

I felt that overwhelming wave of protectiveness wash over me again, despite the fact that I’d known this girl for hours only.

And again, I stopped myself from responding in any manner but acquiescence. Even as my muscles tensed naturally, itching for a fight. Daenerys must have felt the change in me, as she was still in my arms, still clinging to the forearm that kept her from falling.

I was tempted to say something on her behalf. And worse, I was tempted to give her brother back exactly what he gave and more. A soft but insistent press of her fingers around my wrist stopped me.

Feeling the way she held herself then, so rigid, so fiery, I suspected that she was suppressing her own will to reciprocate, perhaps not wanting to jeopardize her escape from this place and this awful excuse for a brother. I wouldn’t risk it for her. Not now. Not without her leave.

We’d be gone tomorrow. And I made a vow then and there, that he’d never touch her again. 

“Good night, Your Grace,” I said to the prince, with a tone that edged on dismissal. 

He didn’t appreciate the tone but he was looking up at me again and perhaps thought twice about provoking an altercation. He tipped his head, smirking widely. It was the smirk of a snake. He kept his gaze fixed on me while speaking to his sister, “Be a good little whore to your husband, Daenerys.”

I relaxed my grip around Daenerys’s waist as her brother left us, and her hand slid off my wrist as we separated. We stood there, side by side, watching him walk away, until it was just us. 

Just the two of us.

Slowly, we turned away from Viserys’s retreating back to meet each other’s gaze again. I looked at her and she looked at me, finding no words to say, both too awkward in our new roles to manage anything at all.

_Husband, wife._

I sighed on much—the events of the day, all the days to come—opening the door to the guest chamber and ushering my new bride inside.


	8. Daenerys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is a fact universally acknowledged, that (whenever possible) all Jorleesi AUs must include #TheBooks <3

**_Daenerys_ **

They’d given Ser Jorah a guest chamber which was small and cramped and located far from the royal apartments. 

I’d never been inside this room, as it was usually set aside for visiting diplomats from Dorne or tradesmen and merchant-princes from the Free Cities, those who were of little consequence and lesser names, tolerated only for so long as their presence was required. Those who were always hurried on their way as soon as their business with Rhaegar was completed. 

The room seemed even smaller with the two of us there. The furniture was sparse—a bed, a chair, a set of drawers. This was a room for one person. And I could fit its width and breadth into my own bedchamber ten times over.

 _It isn’t your room any longer, Daenerys._ The dismal thought popped into my head immediately. It continued, with little compassion for my feelings. _You don’t have a room. Or a home. At least not here. Not any longer._

I tried not to appear downcast, as I didn’t want this man—my _husband_ —to think I was afraid or upset. I wanted to make a good first impression, I suppose. Or prove to him that I was brave. I’m not sure why, as I expected nothing from this marriage. And what good would bravery do, should he be the worst of my fears made flesh? 

At our wedding, he’d helped me up the stairs to the altar. And out there in the hall, just now, with Viserys—he’d listened to my silent plea, as I grasped his wrist and bade him read my thoughts. Asking him to let Viserys go and to say nothing of the crass insults that my brother was intent on leveling against me. 

They were just stupid words, and no good would come from fighting against them. I knew that firsthand.

My brother had his victory and I’d rather he be allowed to enjoy it. I’d been married off to a stranger and tomorrow I would be dragged far from home, but I worried that Viserys could still conjure worse fates than even this. He’d shown his cruelest self these last few weeks, his vanity and self-importance blossoming under Cersei Lannister’s influence, and I just wanted to get away from him before he thought up any more villainous schemes. 

I’d have to take my chances with Jorah Mormont. And I prayed I didn’t live to regret it.

It wasn’t as if arranged marriages were uncommon in Westeros. They happened all the time. I knew I should just grin and bear it, as I’d been preparing myself for this night for weeks now. But once we were alone, wandering around inside that tiny guest chamber, I found it difficult to look at Lord Mormont, while simultaneously wishing I could stare at him openly, for I was curious about this man, and intrigued by him, and wished to know more.

I wished to know more about my own husband. Gods, it was so ridiculous. We’d spoken sacred vows but had yet to call each other by name.

My interest compelled me to glance his way and I caught his eye, but only briefly, as he seemed as uncomfortable as I did, looking away first. His rugged features too easily betrayed his unease. And I watched his powerful hand rise to the back of his neck, where he rubbed at the skin self-consciously, before fiddling with the ginger curls he found there.

Rather nervously, rather boyishly.

A few other thoughts breezed into my head at that sight, unbidden and strange, making my cheeks go hot and rosy. He was such a tall, strongly-built man that the notion that I might be making him nervous set a flutter of something like wings through my stomach. 

I made sure to turn away before he noticed my blushing features, moving towards that small set of drawers beside the bed, keeping my hands busy by reaching up to disentangle the tiara from my braids. The silver snagged once and I murmured a little “ow” as I pulled it free, but neglected to say anything else. 

The silence between us stretched out as a minute passed. And then another. 

We were strangers. But we were also married.

I tried to think of a dozen things to say to him, but failed to come up with anything at all. My mind was cluttered and my thoughts tumbled over each other in a rush. Would he kiss me again? Or would he just want to get on with it? Should I undress or wait for him to command me? Would he take me immediately, and as quickly and roughly as Elia warned? Would it hurt? Would he force himself on me if I started to struggle? He’d overpower me in an instant. Would I beg and plead under his grasp? Would I be able to keep my tears at bay?

My fingers trembled just a little as I placed that tiara aside, setting the pretty thing on the smooth top of the drawers. But I hid those tremors, first undoing the braids in my hair, then clasping my hands together at my waist as I turned back, finally forcing myself to meet his gaze again.

But Lord Mormont wasn’t looking at me. 

He was looking at the floorboards, and then the stone walls. He finally settled on the furthest landscape he could find, taking in the city beyond the breezy valences framing the chamber’s narrow balcony. He took a few steps towards it, wandering towards the open space and the fresh air it offered, his eyes drawn up to the same stars and harvest moon that kept me company the night before.

“Your nights are warm and mild here,” he said, with something like regret coloring his tone. He told me plainly, “You’ll find the nights on Bear Island hold a fiercer chill.”

“I’ll get used to it,” I replied, with assurance. 

I’m not sure where that assurance came from or why I felt compelled to make sure he knew I wouldn’t mind. I could tell him that I’d prepared myself for the worst, snow squalls and dark days and rabid unkindness. Anything less than my imagination’s worst fears would be a welcome relief. 

His back was turned to me, as he stood in a similar fashion to when he was received by my brothers in the Throne Room. I was closer now than when I’d hidden away in that secret alcove, spying on them all. I was only a few feet from him and could see that the hairs on his forearms were as red-blonde as those curls at his neck. I saw the way his proud posture drooped a little here, in this room with only me as a witness.

He’d kept himself so strong before my brothers. But that weariness that I recognized earlier returned and he took no pains to hide it. I wondered at it, considering he might be tired from long days traveling on the road. _Knowing_ it was more likely caused by this situation we found ourselves trapped in, with no escape and no way out.

Had he left someone he loved behind on Bear Island? I hadn’t even considered it. But he was older than me by almost a score of years, and it would be rare that such a handsome man wouldn’t have collected a harem of admirers.

And he didn’t appear to be in any hurry to consummate this marriage, still lingering on the balcony. Perhaps he wanted to get to know me first. Yet, that would require him to turn around and say more than ten words to me. 

Soon, I would learn that silence didn’t bother him, as the north was full of it, and so he knew nothing of the simmering tenseness that an extended silence stirred in me.

As the minutes passed, I grew more anxious about what I thought was to happen. So I decided the only way to break the tension was to get it over with. While my groom took whatever moment he needed out there on the balcony, I decided to undress, slowing stripping off the outer gown and leaving it in a heap on the floor, before sinking down onto the side of the mattress to undo the few cloth buttons that ran up the bodice of my underdress. 

My fingers were still trembling a little and my vision suddenly blurred, despite myself. This distressed me further, with tears feeding on tears. For I wouldn’t cry in front of him, I’d been so set on that. No matter what happened, I _wouldn’t_ let him see my tears. 

And I was already failing in my first promise to myself.

My heart beat wildly, the sound swelling up other any noise in my ears, so much so that I didn’t hear Lord Mormont come in from the balcony. I didn’t hear him approach the side of the bed, where I was hunched over those little buttons, trying to make my clumsy fingers keep to a task they recoiled from. Beneath my blurred sight, I saw a large hand join mine, gently stopping the somewhat frantic movement of my fingers by slowly pulling my hands away from the fabric, depositing both in my lap, to rest quietly. 

I looked up to find fathomless blue eyes staring back at me. He crouched down until he was at eye level, doing up the few buttons I’d managed to undo, so that I was covered once more. 

“No, Princess,” he told me, softly, letting his hand drift down to squeeze mine once before taking it away again. He shook his head as he moved away, rising and reinstating the distance between us. He said, rather sternly, “There’s no need for that.”

“But don’t you want—?” 

“Not tonight,” his voice was firm in this, and he added words that were wholly unexpected, “Not ever, if you wish.”

My hands remained still in my lap, until I felt one of my tears slip from my eyelash and hit my cheek. I reached up to brush it away quickly, as I wasn’t crying any longer. I had no notion of tears, too unsure of what was happening to be sad any longer. I’m sure my brow furrowed with confusion, as I regarded the northern lord without shyness, too befuddled to be anything but direct.

“My brothers will expect—,” I started again, but Lord Mormont raised his hand, stopping me.

“I’ll tell your brothers what they want to hear,” he replied, without hesitation. “And I’ll give them the bride price before we depart. But no, I don’t expect, nor would I want you to—”

Now he was the one fumbling for words. His bashfulness returned and those striking blue eyes dropped from my face to the floor again, much to my regret, as I wasn’t done admiring their color. I found his actions, all of them thus far, endearing in a way that stirred something beneath my breast.

_Surely not. You don’t even know him, Daenerys…_

He recovered only after his eyes had surveyed the length of the floor, running to the end of the bed, where he caught sight of his traveling bags. He seemed relieved by the distraction and went to them with sudden purpose. 

“I’m afraid I don’t have a proper wedding gift for you,” he mentioned, while kneeling down. Tipping my head, I’d scooted closer to the end of the bed, where I watched him dig through the satchel on the floor, wondering what they contained. Eventually, he pulled out three volumes, grumbling, more to himself than to me, “These will have to suffice…”

They were books. _Old_ books with worn bindings and embossed leather covers, faded and scuffed with age. My eyes lit up on the sight of those books, going wide as he handed them off to me. 

Our fingers brushed past each other as the books passed from his hands to mine, and I can’t say that I was dismayed by the touch.

Ser Jorah swallowed once before adding, almost apologetically, “They’re songs and stories of the Northern Kingdoms. I thought you might like them.” 

He straightened up to his full height again, as I pulled my legs up beneath me, crossing them over themselves beneath the skirt of my shift and cradling those books in my lap, as I explored their vellum pages, curiously. I opened the front cover of the first with care, as I was afraid I might break what was left of the frayed binding. They were so old, I wondered if they’d belonged to his grandfather. Or maybe his grandfather’s grandfather?

The inside page of that first book had a full illustration—of an old, gnarled tree in a forest, its branches rich with leaves and twigs twisted up to the top corners, its roots ringed with white and violet flowers, with a fair-haired child peeking out from behind its fat trunk, mischievously.

My fingers passed over the face of that illuminated drawing, its colors faded a little in age, but its lines still sharp enough to render them mystical. The wooded scene was a fairy tale, I knew, but I suddenly hoped the shores I was bound for would have such sights. 

I picked up the second volume after a time, flipping through its pages until my eyes found a familiar phrase.

“‘The Bear and the Maiden Fair’,” I read aloud, muttering over the title. 

It was the most famous of bawdy tavern songs, well-loved by nearly the entire country. I’d never really had an opinion on it, one way or another, but it took on new meaning today. And I’d heard a few chords of it playing earlier, a chorus taken up by drunken men out in the streets, as there were few who wouldn’t take the opportunity to make jokes about a silver-haired princess married off to a wild bear from the north. 

I asked him, almost cheekily, “House Mormont’s favorite song, I’d assume?”

I may have even raised one of my eyebrows just slightly, as I had little control over my features that way and my manner was apt to be too familiar, especially with someone I felt comfortable with. 

“No, Your Grace,” he replied, huffing on a half-laugh. The unexpected smile that graced his features then suited him so well that I found myself stifling a frown on my own features, as I watched it melt away. “We’ve never warmed to it.” 

“Well, I’ve never minded it,” I spoke up eagerly, but careful not to give too much weight to the words. I hoped he understood my meaning, nonetheless.

I didn’t mind _him_. 

It was probably too early to make that statement so decidedly, and maybe he was being kind now, only to show his true colors as soon as we left the city. But I didn’t think so. I was still muddled and unsure, and my feelings were ragged, but I knew one thing. I didn’t mind being in this room with Lord Jorah Mormont. 

I didn’t mind speaking with him or hearing his voice.

And I continued not to mind, as he soon pulled the cushioned chair over towards the bed and we sat together—him, in that chair and me, cross-legged on the bed, speaking quietly for a long while, until the moon outside had moved to the other side of the sky. 

I don’t remember all we spoke of—my brothers, his Island. What I would miss about King’s Landing, how long it had been since he’d seen his father. Little things, like how we both liked to watch the tide come in and how we preferred sunrises to sunsets. 

At some point, I must have laid my head down on the pillows of that bed, letting my eyes slip shut as I continued listening to his voice. I fell asleep dreaming of a place of high waterfalls and deep, earthy forests, a fallen tree over a pine-needled path and a tall man with striking blue eyes reaching out his hand to help me climb over it. 

The next morning, I woke up with a quilt laid over me, although I know I fell asleep before reaching for any covers at all. And there was Ser Jorah, my husband, fast asleep in the chair beside me.


	9. Lyra

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bear Island in late summer <3

**_Lyra_ **

Leaning back on the heels of my hands, I closed my eyes, with my chin and face upturned towards the glow of a late summer sun. 

And with my eyes closed, the music of the forest heightened and sharpened and I felt my lips curve into a small smile, as I drank it all in.

The winding brook below splashed and chortled along, rushing and swelling its low banks from all the heavy rainfall over the last few weeks. I heard songbirds twittering in the deeper woods, robins and finches and nuthatches, trilling out short, simple melodies. More distantly, I could hear the muted roar of the waterfalls and beyond that, the ever constant sound of tide and seawater, its waves breaking against the jagged, black rocks of the Island’s rugged shores. 

We were high up on an eastern ridge above the Keep—Jorelle, Alysane and me. It was still hours before midday, but we’d been in the woods since dawn. We climbed up here after wandering through the meadowlands, hunting for wildflowers and ripe berries, to brighten the feast table that would be set, to welcome our cousin’s new bride to Bear Island.

I was glad the rain stopped for a few days, at least. We were getting soggy enough that I wondered if we’d ever dry out.

But now, the sun was out and bathed the lichen-covered rocks that Aly and I rested on. I could feel its warmth soak into my palms, as both pressed flat against smooth grey stone and moss, of every shade of mint, jade and sage. Wintergreen grew up here too, in the damp shadow of oak trees, and I’d picked a leaf and slipped it into my mouth earlier. I chewed the last bit of flavor from the little, leathery leaf as my fingers spread out through the softer patches of moss, breathing in the salt breeze, soaking in the sunshine.

Mother taught me this trick a long time ago. She says it’s important to wash your hair with summer rays and fill your lungs with the scents of blue phlox and lavender, calm your heart and listen to the music in the deep woods, before it all goes so silent. Before those pretty songbirds fly away south and the baritone bullfrogs down in the shallow streams hide away beneath mud and muck.

There was a basket beside me filled with blackberries and raspberries and black-eyed sunflowers. The berry bushes on the Island were overflowing but they wouldn’t remain that way. The bears would soon wander the hills and pick them clean. And the flowers wouldn’t last either. They never do. 

I do love summer. I’ll be sad to see it go. If only for warm mornings like these… 

My sisters and I spent almost all summer out in the woods. We wouldn’t dream of wasting the sunshine or balmy breezes. And this summer seemed to last forever, honestly. Maester Morlan says that means a long winter will follow, but he’s been wrong before. Just before Lyanna was born, he told Mother that the child would surely be a boy, as Bear Island was currently short on male heirs, and could use a spare. But my baby sister proved him terribly mistaken, and seemed to scowl and judge him from her cradle because of it.

She continued to judge him at lessons, a six-year-old scolding a sixty-year-old maester for forgetting the year the War of the Ninepenny Kings ended. It was amusing to all but Maester Morlan, who had recently begged Jorah to take over the education of the littlest she-bear, as Lyanna seemed to have a soft spot for our cousin that she didn’t appear inclined to extend to anyone else. 

I considered—well, maybe old Maester Morlan didn’t have to worry about heirs to Bear Island anymore, as Jorah had sent us a raven from Winterfell that said he’d be arriving within a fortnight, with Daenerys Targaryen. His new bride.

That was two weeks ago. They were expected this very day. 

I opened one eye slowly, to see if Jorelle was still down by the creek bed, wandering and picking more flowers, as she fretted that we still didn’t have enough. She had daisies, sea-spurries, pansies and pink clover in her bouquet already. But she insisted on gathering a few more. 

I think Jory would have collected them with or without the princess’s imminent arrival. She wore a crown on her curly-haired head, fashioned from twisted twigs and leaves, buttercups and winter roses. They wrote epic poems and love songs about those roses on the mainland, thinking they were so rare. This always amused us, as they grew in such abundance on the Island, if only you knew where to look. 

And we certainly knew where to look. We’d been crawling all over these woods and shores since we were toddling babes. There was pine pitch under our fingernails and honey in our hair.

“What kind of flowers do you think the princess likes?” Jorelle called up to us, holding the bouquet that she’d created far above her head for our approval. It looked colorful and bright enough from here. We could add my black-eyed sunflowers to what she had already and I saw no reason why we’d need any others.

Besides, Mother told us not to fuss too much about it. We would do our duty and welcome the princess to our shores, but we wouldn’t simper and fall all over ourselves attempting to please her. I tried to imagine Dacey curtsying before Princess Daenerys down at the docks but kept wondering if the hunting knife on her belt would get in the way. 

“Probably not torn petals or twiggy vines,” Alysane mentioned dryly, knowing that Jorelle was likely to consider most of the forest fair game when it came to creating sprays of flowers. She loved weeds and wildflowers equally, and often used bull thistles, cockleburs and thorn-apple needles in her creations. 

“What about mushrooms?” Jory asked, dead serious. There was a patch of dusty white and brown-specked fungus growing within inches of her boots. 

“Not those either,” Aly replied, with a huff of laughter. 

Jory shrugged her shoulders at this, as if it was a loss for the princess, but she acquiesced and moved on, wandering down the stream a little further. But I noticed that she took the time to bend down and fuss with the mushroom caps, likely setting an acorn there, for the sake of whatever woodland creature hopped by next. Watching her, I found myself thinking that the lacy white flowers growing around this rock ledge might serve quite well as a tablecloth.

I’d go down by the stream and add it to the acorn-adorned mushroom cap, but I was too comfy where I was.

Jorelle wandered further, her boots now in one hand, flowers in the other. She wore trousers under her skirt, as we all did. She rolled those trouser legs up to her knees and held the skirt hem aloft with the same hand that held the bouquet of flowers, as she waded out to pick some iris in the shallows, and pluck a single water lily from its floating garden. 

I settled back on the rock, lying flat on my back and shading my eyes against those golden rays, to seek out the brilliant blue sky and a few cottony clouds that passed through it. One that looked like a rabbit, another that looked like a badger. Alysane remained standing, her arms crossed over her chest, as she grumbled, all her thoughts on our cousin’s impending return.

And the woman he would bring with him. 

“She’ll likely be spoiled rotten. She’ll expect us to wash her linens, dress her, arrange her hair and gods only know what else,” Aly speculated, and I couldn’t disagree with her. We knew little about the princess, but much about the family she came from. And Targaryens weren’t the humble, helpful sort. She continued, “I’m not going to be a maidservant to some mainlander girl, I’ll tell you that.”

“Even if she’s a princess?” I mused smartly, while knowing the answer. Knowing my own answer. We were the kind of girls who rolled our eyes at titles. But the fact remained—she was a princess and we were near wild women of the north, not really fit for southern garden parties, so Mother always told us, if affectionately.

“ _Especially_ if she’s a princess,” Alysane grumbled and I smirked, one eye closed again against that pretty but powerful sunlight.

“Me neither,” I agreed. 

We were a small house but we were a proud one. And princess or not, Daenerys Stormborn would find us unwilling to play ladies-in-waiting, if that’s what she expected. It just wasn’t our way. Not one of us could claim any talents with delicate needlework, although I’d sewn the pockets on that dress that Aly was wearing, and the stitches seemed to hold just fine. 

Of course, maybe Princess Daenerys would surprise us. Perhaps she was nothing like we imagined. It was possible. 

But I’m the optimist of the five of us, and I’m afraid I’m a little too cynical about my own optimism. So I assumed the worst, while hoping for the best, undermining both lines of thought in a way that might bother me, if I weren’t currently experiencing a moment of perfect contentment.

Still, I wondered, “Did Jorah say if she was mad like her father?”

Alysane shook her head. The redder highlights in her dark brown locks were fully visible out here, under the gloss of the summer sun. My own hair color lightened in summer to be nearly the color of wheat fields, although it would darken again as the sun bid us farewell for the season. 

“No,” she answered. “Mother said he didn’t say much. Just that they were married in King’s Landing and that he was bringing her home.”

“I can’t believe he married her,” I sighed, a little indignation sneaking into my tone. For us, for our cousin. To be married off to a complete stranger? And a Targaryen, no less? I think I’d rather marry a Greyjoy. 

No, I take it back. Ever to hell with those bloody krakens. 

“Mother was convinced he was taking the black,” Alysane mentioned evenly. 

“I know. Dacey told me. I wonder what changed his mind?”

“We’ll find out soon enough, I’d wager,” my sister replied, casting her brown eyes back towards the sea, ever vigilant. We’d come up here to gather those wildflowers for our new cousin-in-law and to keep watch for sails on the horizon.

As much as I was disquieted that Jorah married the Targaryen girl, after all, I can’t say that I was upset to hear he was coming home to the Island. If he went to the Wall like Uncle Jeor, we’d never see him again, and that was a hard thing to swallow. 

Jorah could be a little too somber sometimes and he was short-spoken, even for a Mormont, but Bear Island would feel very strange and lonely without him. He’d been lord of this place since I was a child. We all teased him that he was the golden child of the family, the heir of the Island, but it was all in good fun. I loved my cousin. We all did. 

And with Mara passing away so young, and his stillborn babes too, well, I suppose we should be grateful Jorah remembered how to smile at all. And maybe this marriage would be the best thing for him? I couldn’t really see it, but I wasn’t completely against the idea either. 

Generously, I decided to give Daenerys Stormborn the benefit of the doubt, as I knew that Mother, Dacey and Alysane would likely need her to prove herself first. But I tried to put myself in her shoes, as we were the same age. How would I feel if I was suddenly told I’d have to marry some faraway lord in King’s Landing and leave the Island for good?

I felt another half-smile tease my lips, as I was more amused by the thought than anything else.

 _Let them try_ …I thought, and knew I’d just run off into the deep woods if anyone dared take me from Bear Island. 

And best of luck to any man who tried to follow me there. 

Alysane’s attention was still hovering on the horizon and, while still shading my eyes, I looked up and watched my sister’s osprey eyes light up. I sat up immediately and peered out to the sea as well, cupping my hands over my eyes, searching for the sight that caught her attention so fully. 

There. Right next to that wisp of feathery cloud. A tall ship with gleaming white sails. As it came closer, we’d see the bear banners, proudly fluttering in the sea breeze.

Jorah was home. 

As Alysane wordlessly hopped down off the rock outcropping, I snatched up my basket and got to my feet as well, calling down to Jorelle,

“Time to go, Jory! They’re coming!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So salzrand and I have finished our fancast of the remaining Mormont girls (Bella Ramsey is still Lyanna) and just for your viewing pleasure, here's the rest of the Mormont clan:
> 
> With...
> 
> Natalia Wörner as Maege
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>   
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> 
> Hayley Atwell as Dacey
> 
>   
> 
> 
> Gemma Arterton as Alysane
> 
>   
> 
> 
> Millie Brady as Lyra
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>   
> 
> 
> Dalila Bela as Jorelle
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>   
> 
> 
> <3


	10. Dacey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE LOBSTERS HAVE LANDED 😍
> 
> Dacey Mormont has some thoughts on this. And will look fierce & gorgeous while thinking them, thanks to salzrand <3

**_Dacey_ **

We waited down at the wharf, all lined up, all in a row, as Jorah’s ship was brought to berth. It was a mild day, with calm seas lapping gently in the harbor, hardly a wave breaking against the pillars and quay, so we didn’t have to wait long.

Mother was at the front of the line, right beside me. Her posture was as proud and battle-ready as ever, despite the fact that we were here to welcome Jorah home, not to go to war. But that’s Mother, for better or worse, in any season. She had her arms crossed over her ample chest, standing very tall, with a natural scowl gracing her features. 

If I didn’t know her better, I might say that scowl was one of displeasure, borne of the fact that, in just a few moments, she would no longer be the most honored woman on this Island. 

With the wedding in King’s Landing, that title had been commandeered by another—Jorah’s new bride. The Lady of Bear Island. A young woman who had never set foot on these shores before. A stranger, a mainlander. 

A bloody Targaryen. 

Mother wasn’t one to begrudge such a thing, even if there’s no use denying that Jorah’s marriage sat ill with all of us. And even if Mother would never admit it, I knew it needled her, and us, that some foreign girl would now be greeted first by any visitors to our Island, presuming the role of mistress of all she surveyed.

Even though she’d never set eyes on any of it before today—not the forests, not the waterfalls and not the sea. She knew none of them like we did. This was our Island, _our_ home, for generations and generations. My grandfather’s grandfather was born right up there, in the Mormont Keep, same as the rest of us.

Except Jorelle, who was born out in the woods. But that was just poor planning on Mother’s part.

Mother’s scowl was never planned at all. This was her natural expression, and it had little to do with whether she was pleased or not. She had different frowns for different moods, but the variance was subtle. She’d soften that look when she greeted Jorah, as she was glad he was home, but not by any degree easily recognized by anyone outside our family.

Least of all the princess. 

_Good thing too_ , I thought, as it would be better for her to know our ways early. We would welcome her if Jorah asked us to, but I’m afraid that’s as far as our pleasantries would extend. 

At least until we knew her better. 

While we stood together, lingering, watching, waiting for the sailors to secure the lines and tie off the ship, Lyra took the opportunity to mutter something in my direction. I didn’t hear her words, as her voice dropped low, likely not wanting the sailors to overhear. 

“What was that?” I asked, not bothering to turn to my sister. We were all watching for the first sight of Jorah and the woman he brought with him. 

Aly was standing between us and she offered an answer, in a tone that said she knew the advice was for both of us, but for me especially, “She told you to be nice.”

“I’m always nice,” I answered, turning back a bit defensively, without pausing for any caveats. The defense was a little put on, I have to admit, but still… 

I _was_ nice. Most of the time. It’s not my fault that mainlanders had such soft, fragile sensibilities. You say _one_ thing about how slow their footwork is on uneven terrain or ask how much copper they wasted to douse themselves in Dornish perfumes that smelled like wilting lilies and suddenly they sulk through the rest of dinner …

“Not to the Stark boys. Or Jory Cassel…,” Alysane replied, counting out the names on her fingers, knowingly. And beside her, Lyra added with a little tip of the head, “Nor Lord Manderly, for that matter.”

Lord Manderly was the one who wore the Dornish perfume. He should have known better than to drown himself in southern scents, while attending a northern feast. And if the old widower was trying to impress me, as the girls have speculated, he doubly should have known better. 

I don’t trust men who smell like exotic flowers. And it’s not a recent thing.

“Lord Manderly breathes too much southern air down in White Harbor, so it’s impossible _not_ to offend,” I argued. They all knew it was true. I made my other excuses, “The Stark boys need a little toughening up, if you ask me. Their father goes too easy on Robb in the practice ring. And as for Jory Cassel…”

“Yes, what about Captain Cassel?” Lyra asked, far too cleverly.

“He should have thought twice about having the same name as Jorelle,” I mentioned, stopping the twitch of my lips from turning into a smirk on the memory of what happened the last time the Starks made a visit to our shores. “It’s not my fault that he answered a summons that wasn’t his own.”

“You were with him when he received it,” Aly pointed out, oh-so-helpfully. She was suppressing a smirk too, but nodded, “You could have warned him.”

“And miss the blush that will now come to his face every single time the Starks come to Bear Island?” I asked, rhetorically. “Not a chance in seven hells.”

“I don’t know why he was bothered by it,” Jory— _our_ Jory—added, from further down the line, with a shrug of her shoulders. Her hands held a bouquet of wildflowers for the princess, stems tied up in a white ribbon. “They were just underthings. And Ana wasn’t embarrassed that he showed up for my fitting. It was an honest mistake.”

“Southern sensibilities, love,” I reminded her. “And Captain Cassel is too honorable to even say the word smock or girdle, even if he’s in the middle of untying one.”

“And how would you know that, Dace?” Aly wondered, with a twinkle in her eye that said she might guess. But I pressed my lips together and said no more, mostly because Mother had turned to the five of us and insisted, “ _Hush_ , girls.”

Jorah was disembarking, with his Targaryen princess. Curious and without reserve, I peered around Mother, attempting to get a better look. We’d never had a member of the royal family visit our shores before. Not for as long as I’d been alive. And not Mother either.

I’d never seen a Targaryen in the flesh. The way the history books go on about them, it seems as if they might have dragon wings attached to their shoulder blades, descending from the heavens like fire angels. They’d ruled over Westeros for three hundred years, but they were foreigners still. They’d be foreigners forever, at least to those of us who lived north of Moat Cailin.

How could a foreigner know our ways and understand our lands? She would know nothing of the earth she stood on, how its ancient roots dug deep into the seabed, bloodlines tracing back to the First Men and the Children of the Forest, all fairy tales to her, I’m sure.

As much as Old Valyria and dragons were fairy tales to us, to be fair. 

I saw Jorah first, sturdy as always on his sea legs—as a boy, he’d spent as much time on the sea as my sisters and I spent in the woods, and Uncle Jeor always said he would have made a good sailor, if he weren’t born a lord’s son. 

Before he reached the dock, I watched him stop and turn back, to offer a steadying hand to the woman who followed him down the gangplank. 

I steeled myself, my expression likely going as severe as Mother’s, expecting a haughty princess to emerge from the ship’s interior, bejeweled from head to toe, dressed in expensive silks and satins, with a petulant, unimpressed glower gracing her sullen face. I’d made no room in my imaginings of this moment to expect anything different.

Yet, a small hand reached out and took Jorah’s, and what’s more, she thanked him for offering it. Her expression held nothing of snobbish disdain. Her eyes were wide and moving over the landscape, the jagged cliffs surrounding the harbor, the thick pine forests up in the hills, the Keep, the dock, _us_.

She was smaller than I imagined. Hardly taller than Jorelle. And there wasn’t a bauble or jewel on her, not a single one. Her wrists and neck were barren of gold or sapphires and her travelling clothes were almost practical, at least compared to the silk-and-velvet court gown I’d imagined her arriving in. 

The princess wore no crown on her head, although her hair certainly required no added adornment.

She had silver hair, just like all the stories said. But in the sunlight, it turned a shade of spun gold too. My sisters and I had hair the color of deep earth, different shades of brown and auburn, approaching black in my case, like the soft sheen of bear fur. The princess had hair the color of light, white starlight, silver moonlight and golden sunlight, all mixed together.

No wonder the Targaryens fashioned themselves so far above us. Born with hair like that, how could they not think the gods had blessed them?

“Aunt Maege, how are you?” Jorah had reached Mother, bending down to kiss her cheek in greeting. He presented his bride to her, with formality. But he was nervous—I could tell. The creased lines around his mouth, the storm in his eyes. The other girls knew it as well, as we shared slightly amused glances up and down the line. 

He was worried what we would think. As he should be.

In glancing down the line, I noticed that Lyanna was doing her best impression of Mother’s scowl, if only pint-sized. And Lyra thought _I_ needed a warning? She should turn to her other side and see how our six-year-old baby sister would be greeting our new cousin-by-law.

With a growl and bared teeth, if that expression on her little face was any indication.

But as I turned back, I second-guessed if Daenerys Targaryen deserved it. The princess still held Jorah’s hand—for reassurance? Whatever worries our cousin had, hers were tenfold, I’m sure. The look on her face betrayed her well enough. She was nervous. She was fretting. And she did very little to hide her anxiousness. Did no one ever teach her to bury those feelings away where no one could see them, or worse, use them against her? 

And what was she afraid of anyway?—Gods, we weren’t going to eat her.

She had eyes the color of spring violets. And she was beautiful, there was no denying that. Is this why Jorah changed his mind about joining the Night’s Watch? 

Their body language was a bit uneven, a bit uncertain. At times, the princess seemed to edge very close to him, as if she’d known him all her life, as if he was her sworn protector, which I suppose he was, given their wedding vows. At other times, she seemed to remember she’d met him mere weeks ago, and stopped herself from leaning too close. Still, she held his hand and appeared reluctant to let go. 

As for Jorah—I watched my cousin critically as he stood next to Mother, exchanging news of what had transpired in the weeks of his absence. My gaze flickered down to his hand, noting how he kept hold of Daenerys, and the telling way his fingers curled around hers, squeezing gently every once in a while. I could read the movements of his hand better than I could reach his face. And I suspected that he was keeping such a steady hold for that young woman’s sake.

But was it love already? 

That would be hard to pin down without forcing him to admit it outright, one way or another. And my cousin would never divulge matters of his own heart to me. Jorah kept his own counsel in that way. But I knew that he wasn’t one to fall in love easily or be swayed by a pretty face, or he might have taken a number of willing island girls into his bed already. 

And it might be no more than his natural impulse to protect. He’d never been able to bear the sight of anything or anyone in trouble or in sorrow or in pain. When we were younger, I remember that he found a fox kit in the woods with an injured leg. He nursed that little thing back to health, even after Uncle Jeor told him that it should be put out of its misery. But Jorah wouldn’t do it, defying his father and saving the wild, broken thing anyway.

He’d saved Cat Stark all those years ago too, not out of love or expectation, but just because he was the only one who could do it. 

And the way he kept vigil by Mara’s bedside all the way to the bitter end—holding her limp hand for long, terrible hours, as she faded away from this world.

No, I couldn’t be certain on my cousin’s feelings. Or his bride’s. Time would tell, of course. 

Time would tell on many things. I wasn’t quite ready to change my mind on Daenerys Targaryen yet. She may look timid and harmless now, but that didn’t mean we wouldn’t suffer the whims of a prissy, vain princess as soon as she was settled.

I decided to reserve judgment for the present, which was generous coming from me. 

And, with Aly’s elbow making a small jab to my ribs as a reminder—a reminder passed down from Lyra, I expect—I silently promised to behave. I would be _nice_ , at least for now. 

Jorah moved down the line to me next, and I was suddenly face-to-face with his wife. 

“Dacey, this is Daenerys,” Jorah told me. 

_You don’t say, cousin_. I held back my wry smiles and my sharp words with effort, extending my hand to the princess instead. Her eyes betrayed more of her inner turmoil than they should, but I found no guile there. 

Just a young woman trying to be brave, in a strange place, hundreds of miles from home.

“Welcome to Bear Island, my lady,” I said, and nearly meant it.


	11. Jorah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out the awkward lobsters in their natural habitat (i.e. The Land Of Only One Bed). And salzrand expertly catching them at their awkwardest lol 😂❤️
> 
> You may remember some of this chapter (as it was the subject of the teaser that I posted before the fic) but I decided that there's no reason not to have this scene from Jorah's POV as well 😘

**_Jorah_ **

“What are you doing?” Daenerys asked me, her voice like dropped glass, breaking the usual hush of my bedchamber with little effort.

 _Our bedchamber_, I amended in my head. 

It was ours now. 

I hadn’t seen any way around it. I couldn’t have Daenerys sleeping in a guest chamber in her own house. Certainly not these first weeks back. Bear Islanders are not the kind to spin tales or gossip over a wash tub but there would be little rational excuse for why we’d sleep in separate quarters as newlyweds, unless the marriage itself was a sham.

There’s no gossip in speaking plain truth. And I didn’t want that truth, nor any whisper of it, making its way back to King’s Landing.

Daenerys was right about her brothers. I didn’t know them well at all but Rhaegar’s cold indifference and Viserys’s gleeful malice had been palpable after minutes only. Viserys, especially, made his feelings on this subject perfectly clear. He was pleased with the idea that I would seize his sister’s virtue at the first opportunity. He seemed to hope I’d be rough with her and break her spirit. 

There was a cold cruelty in this that I didn’t understand. I didn’t understand why his sister’s pain should bring him so much joy. 

But I understood well enough that it would be better if Viserys thought his schemes had worked. Daenerys said as much as I sat up with her into the witching hours of morning and she told me not to mind her expression the next day, as we left King’s Landing for Bear Island. She said a few moments of feigned misery would make a great difference, and perhaps Viserys would finally leave well enough alone.

I agreed with her, although I knew some of her tears the next day weren’t for Viserys’s benefit alone, despite all her brave words. She was being forced from her home. By me. And even though she came willingly, I knew that, given the choice, she wouldn’t be going anywhere. 

Viserys saw us off and merely smirked at his sister’s tears, pleased with his handiwork. I had an awful urge to wipe that smirk off his sharp-featured face, but one look in Daenerys’s tearful direction told me to keep my hands and my tongue still, and let her handle this.

“Don’t worry, Dany,” Viserys’s farewell lacked even basic empathy, but I was beginning to understand that this was his natural way. “I’m sure once Mormont breaks you in, you’ll be thanking me for arranging this.” 

My jaw clenched tightly but I kept my mouth shut. Only a few minutes more and we’d be riding far away from the snake’s venom. And, like Daenerys, I worried that if he somehow discovered that things were _not_ as he imagined, and that the marriage had _not_ been consummated, there would be hell to pay. 

And I wasn’t interested in paying the dragons any more than what had already been paid. 

The bride price that Rhaegar demanded was twice what I’d brought with me to King’s Landing. This was intentional, I think, as Lord Varys had been very clear on the exact sum in his last letter. I’d brought it, even when my intention was to refuse the princess. I’d scraped the sum together with difficulty, but I managed it, down to the last coin. 

There was stubborn pride in this. I suppose I wanted them to know that my decision not to wed the princess would be my own, a choice made for reasons other than poverty.

But then Rhaegar doubled it at the last moment, and after I’d already wed, and presumably bed, his sister, leaving no room to haggle or argue my king’s _just_ commands. I suspect my manner in the throne room the day before had encouraged this last-minute adjustment and I cursed myself for not just holding my tongue and playing their fool.

I had to borrow the rest, and quickly. And I had no friends in King’s Landing so I might have floundered finding a loan. But there was a guest in the Red Keep who somehow knew of my troubles and came to our room before we left, offering to cover my expenses with an amused smile gracing his wily features, as the sum was mere pocket change to him, I’m sure. 

“‘A Lannister always collects his debts’,” Tyrion Lannister, the Imp, impressed upon me, as he handed me a coin purse containing what I needed. He shrugged good-naturedly, “It’s a lesser known saying, but still true. Don’t forget it, Mormont. And you’re welcome.” 

I took his damn purse and felt sick doing it. But I wouldn’t leave Daenerys in this city, not after what I’d seen and heard, not with the name _Roose Bolton_ still ringing in my ears—so I took it. On terms I had no leverage to negotiate. And then I handed that purse over to Rhaegar before we left. Every last penny. A greater fortune than I’d ever hold in my hands again, gone as quickly as it was gained.

If the catch at the nets was sparse this fall, we’d have a rough winter. If the Greyjoys came raiding and pillaging the villages along the southern bays, we might not make it through at all. My balance sheets were now upside down and would remain so unless, by some mercy or miracle, Bear Island found a cache of gold or silver mines hidden somewhere in the forest.

_Who needs gold or silver when they have sunflowers and starlight? Who needs sapphires and rubies when they have the feathers of blue jays and ripe raspberries?_

One of the girls said this to me once. Or maybe it was Mother? 

I could never bring my mother’s voice to mind at will, not unless I thought of her singing. And even then, it was just snatches of a lilting voice, humming out a foreign lullaby. Down the hall or up in the woods, where I could still imagine her wading through shallow streams, laughing as she ducked away from a deluge of sparkling water, sent her way by my father’s mischievous hands.

I resisted the urge to sigh on that old memory, as it brought me nothing but a heavy ache in my chest. If I could sell it outright for a price, I think I’d do it. 

For I certainly had little else to sell…

These were the thoughts that plagued me as I dropped that pillow to the stone floor by the hearth, trying to turn over in my head how I might pay down my loans as soon as possible. Hopefully, before Aunt Maege realized that I’d not only returned with a Targaryen wife, but that I’d emptied our coffers to do so.

And yet, as dismal as those thoughts were, I was almost glad for the distraction. 

Without them, I would have been too keenly aware of Daenerys’s presence in my bedchamber, the flowery scent of lilies and lavender that lingered in her hair, the hesitant words falling off her lips, shyly asking me to help her untie her stays, her hands pulling back the covers on my bed to willingly take her rest beneath them…

Daenerys, my wife. This beautiful creature was my wife.

With every mile distant from King’s Landing, I had further confirmation of something that I’d discovered on our wedding day. That, while my heart might be a ruined thing even still, it might not be _quite_ as dead as I previously thought. 

On the ride north, my eyes were too often drawn to her. On the crossing to Bear Island, I couldn’t help but join her at the ship’s rail. And when she took my hand as we disembarked, I found myself reluctant to give it back.

I was attracted to this young woman. Even if I wanted to deny it, the color I felt flush my cheeks at the mere sound her voice and…other stirrings, would contradict it. 

I wasn’t so much a fool as to think she might feel a similar attraction. I was twice her age and, in any other set of circumstances, would have been far beneath her notice. And rightly so, as she was a princess of the Seven Kingdoms and I was nothing but a minor lord from a small vassal house. That she’d been forced to take my name was a sour thing. But, at present, I wasn’t sure how to sweeten it.

The knowledge that she likely felt nothing for me was helpful, as it poured cold water over the heat that might otherwise be flooding my veins without reserve, making that simple question she asked painfully awkward.

Not that it wasn’t already. 

_What are you doing?_

I stumbled on my answer, “I thought…”

What did I think? I found it hard to think at all when my gaze came around to hers. Her eyes were too wide and wistful, generous and wise beyond her years. I fell straight into them without thinking better of it, as if I’d tumbled into a mountain lake and forgot how to swim, every time. 

And that chased any other words I might have said right out of my mouth. For what could I say? I’d assumed this is what she wanted. A maiden girl couldn’t be too keen on sharing a bed with a man she’d known for barely a month, even chastely. I thought my intentions were obvious. I thought…

Bless her, Daenerys filled the clumsy silence that I’d left behind. She was shaking her head, stubbornly, her gaze falling to her lap with something that sounded like regret, “No, I won’t have you sleep on cold stone.”

I told her that I didn’t mind. But she’d have none of it. 

Her gaze continued to evade my own, as I watched her wrestle with inner feelings that made her fingers tangle over each other nervously. She murmured, “But I’m sorry that—”

I wouldn’t let her finish that apology. I would have her stop apologizing altogether. Forever. My heart still felt pain when I thought of how she’d said those same words, “I’m sorry,” just before I kissed her in the Sept of Baelor.

_What if you kissed her again, right now?_

I buried that sudden, reckless thought deep enough so it might not see the light of day again. At least not tonight. Still, her misery stirred something else in me—a notion to comfort her. I was far more confident in this compulsion, somehow knowing that I might have the power to lift her sorrow. I even took a step closer to the bed, my hand lifting just a hair, as if I might reach out and touch her…

I stopped myself, and found my words again. 

“Don’t be,” I assured her, from a respectful distance. “I don’t want you to feel that any of this is your fault or that you’re a burden to me in any way.”

“Then sleep in your own bed, Jorah,” she insisted, in a fiery tone that I’d soon grow to recognize as non-negotiable. 

And my name! She used my given name for the first time in that moment and it affected both of us. Deeply. Her cheeks were flushed on my name and I watched her gaze dart down again, having been too bold, and now retreating into shyness again.

For my own part, I was attempting to remember a time when my name sounded half as lovely falling off a woman’s lips. But the effort was in vain. In her presence, I struggled to remember anything.

“Please?” she added after another moment, begging me to heed her. Her voice was both small and sincere as she admitted, “I won’t be able to sleep if you don’t.” 

My last hesitation wavered. No, I wouldn’t be the cause of her sleepless nights. Not after everything else. I swallowed hard, eventually nodding in resignation, while bending down to pick that pillow off the floor.

We said no more as I joined her in bed, taking refuge in silence. I was careful not to touch her, whether accidently or otherwise. From her side of the mattress, she watched me get settled, eyes following my movements with a curious look on her face. Once she was satisfied that I wouldn’t bolt away, she turned onto her other side, away from me, silver-blonde head pressed deep against the down of that soft pillow. 

The blankets that covered her form followed the smooth line of her curves too exactly. I lay flat on my back, with my eyes closed. I tried to forget her curves. Her soft breathing, her alluring scent. The way she said my name… 

“Goodnight, Jorah…,” she murmured in a half-whisper.

I didn’t expect to sleep that night, the competing worries of the Island’s finances and the fact that a woman—my wife—was lying beside me, sleeping within arm’s reach, might have been too much. But apparently all those long days on the road were finally catching up with me and I must have dozed off at some point, despite my unsettled thoughts.

For how else did I find myself awakened, so abruptly, in the middle of the night by Daenerys? 

She didn’t mean to wake me—she didn’t know it—in the throes of a nightmare that had her writhing in some unknown fear, clutching the sheets in a death-grip, and speaking a string of haunted, tangled words, which ended in a simple, heartbreaking plea of, “No, no, no!”


	12. Daenerys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I won't have an update on this one next wknd but I _will_ have at least one chapter update on _Jamais_ coming up this week and Part 1 of my last Christmas fic will be up tomorrow (Part 2 will follow on Thurs. or Fri.) - which is another collab with my fave Pardner-In-Fluff btw *dips Stetson in salzrand's talented direction* - so hopefully that makes up for the delay on this one 💞
> 
> And I'll be back the following weekend on our usual schedule :) In the meantime, hope you're all having a wonderful holiday season! Xo

**_Daenerys_ **

I don’t know what I dreamed that first night on Bear Island. Not exactly.

I’ve tried to remember, as Jorah has asked me about it many times since, but I just don’t know. I suppose I remember the flicker of fire. But frost too. My hands were _so_ cold, knuckles digging into crusty, bloody snow, crawling back across a barren field in dread and fear, as I was all alone in the midst of—

No, it’s no use. 

I can’t remember it. But I remember crying out in the dream and Jorah says that I called out in my sleep as well.

_No, no, no!_

It wasn’t unusual for me to have nightmares. I should have warned Jorah. But it had been so long since I had one of these dreams. I thought I’d outgrown them. And I wasn’t overly uneasy as I fell asleep, nor frightened, so I don’t know what faithless creature came to me that night, to slip dark terrors into my head for plain sport.

 _The Horned Devil_ …, whispered a knowing voice in my head—a child’s ever-spooked but self-assured voice. My own, no doubt, from years ago and miles away.

The Horned Devil. 

Gods, I grimaced at the mere thought. I hadn’t thought about him in a dozen years. Not since Rhaegar sent old Ser Willem Darry to fetch Viserys and I from Dragonstone, to bring us to King’s Landing for our father’s funeral.

That creature had sat outside my bedchamber at Dragonstone for as long as I can remember. He was cast in stone, with a thorny skull and black amber eyes, his waifish but near human-like body crouched on a pedestal as if ready to pounce from it and give chase down the long halls, the ragged wings on his scaly back half-lifted, prepared for a demon’s flight. 

The Horned Devil was a massive stone gargoyle, one of many lining the halls of Dragonstone, as lifeless as all the rest in that austere castle. But this one crouched just outside my bedroom, his eyes following me every time I went in or out. He was a particularly grim grotesque and I was only five years old, alone in a gusty, lonely bedroom in a palace built for war and siege, without a mother or father, without anyone at all except my brother, who found his pleasure in torment early. 

Viserys told me that, at night, the statue outside my bedroom door would crawl down from his perch and sharpen his dragonglass teeth on the stone walls, sending up sparks as he sharpened his nails much the same. He’d creep through my door, as the hinges whined and the sea wind blew and rattled against my windows. He’d hover over my bed, perched at the foot of it, amber eyes alert and long fingernails clicking over each other, biding his time and waiting for nightmares so he might swallow them whole. 

“He feeds on nightmares, Dany. And bad little girls who leave their beds in the middle of the night,” Viserys warned me, with wide, animated eyes. He raised a bony finger, “So make sure not to leave your room or he might eat _you_ whole. Do you understand?” 

I tried so hard not to have any nightmares after that, praying before I went to sleep each night that my dreams would either stay nice or just leave me alone completely and not call out to the hideous monster that lived just on the other side of my bedroom door. 

Some nights I stayed awake for as long as I could, knowing that there was no way to avoid the nightmares, as every time I closed my eyes, I’d convinced myself that I could hear a heavy stone foot hit the obsidian floor in the hall with a _thud_. 

And the whining _screeeeech_ of hinges that was sure to follow… 

But I always fell asleep eventually. And when I woke up in the middle of the night, so abruptly, in a cold fear, with a fire that had gone out and the flicker of too many shadows on my walls—the moonlight outside too often bounced off stormy, frothy waters—I would start to shake and try my hardest not to cry, as Viserys had told me that tears appealed to the Horned Devil, as much as nightmares. If not more so.

I kept my eyes shut tightly, as if that might prove I wasn’t awake. And slowly, so as not to attract attention, I’d pull my blanket over my head and remain very still, forcing myself to ignore the sounds of the night and suppress whatever dark thoughts flickered through my head, as my mind spun on snatches of terrible, half-remembered dreams of being chased in the dark or snatched from my bed to be flown across the sea and caged in some ruined castle in Old Valyria.

 _It’s just a dream. Just a dream_ , I’d remind myself over and over again, hoping I’d fall back asleep before I was tempted to throw back my sheets and go running through the halls of Dragonstone in my nightclothes, seeking Viserys, even if I knew he’d just sneer at my tears and tell me more stories about how I was now marked for death by the Horned Devil.

_I warned you. This is your own fault, sweet sister. You can’t blame me._

It was silly and I should have known better but I didn’t. I was too little to know Viserys was lying and there was no one to tell me otherwise. My mother was dead. My father was in King’s Landing, and a madman besides. The servants at Dragonstone were not unkind but they kept a wide berth, as no one trusts a dragon. Not even the little ones. 

So there were no comforting arms for me to run to.

After we were moved to King’s Landing, the nightmares receded somewhat, as Elia became a surrogate mother for me and Rhaenys always slept in the room next to mine. But still, there were nights when I woke up in a rush, with all those old fears washing over me, sending my heart racing and my breath shallow.

And yet, I still didn’t call out to them. I was too afraid that they would think me foolish and weak, perhaps even a little mad, like my father. For what kind of grown woman lets a nightmare get the better of her?

I’d just pull my covers up to my chin and keep my eyes closed until the feelings of cold dread passed again, suffering through them alone, careful not to let anyone know.

But here, on Bear Island, I failed to hide anything at all. Lord Mormont slept only inches from me. I’d woken him with my cries, without meaning to and without knowing it. And there was nothing I could do to take it back. 

I must have been in the midst of that dream when he awakened. For there is _one_ small detail from the end of the dream that I can always bring to mind with perfect clarity. 

I don’t know what was chasing me or where I was. But just before it overtook me, whatever it was, whatever maiming or death awaited me in whatever dark place I found myself in, I crawled back one last time, the heel of my hand making its final, frantic dig against cold snow and suddenly…I wasn’t alone anymore. 

Suddenly, there were arms picking me up, sliding around my waist and lifting me from the icy patch of ground, helping me find my footing, pulling me away, leading me to safety. That had never happened before. Not once, in all my nightmares.

Warm, living arms. A strong, steady grip. 

Jorah’s arms around me. Jorah’s hands making soothing circles against my back. Jorah’s midnight-rasp spoken at my ear.

“It’s just a dream. You’re dreaming, Daenerys,” he murmured, as he gathered me close. These were the first words I heard as I returned to myself, leaving the hazy dreamscapes for reality—the same words I used to say to myself, over and over again.

It was far easier to believe those words when someone else said them.

My fingers released their death grip on the sheets to find my husband’s tunic and hold on tight, seeking flesh and blood, instead of shadow. 

If I’d been thinking more clearly, I would have been stunned that Jorah took me in his arms at all, as only a few hours before, he’d been so hesitant to even join me in his own bed. But I gave him little choice. Emerging from restless sleep, I went to him on instinct, without second thought. As soon as his hand reached out to graze my shoulder, gently shaking me awake, my arms were climbing around his neck. 

I pulled myself into his embrace, my head buried against his broad chest with something much like relief.

When I was a child, I’d wanted this so much. 

Someone, _anyone_ , to be there to hold onto in all these manic, terrible minutes right after waking, when the dream was still as real as the rest of it, sharp, cruel and ugly. The fear lingered, my heart pounding and my eyes too afraid to open, lest I see the horrors that the dream had conjured hovering over me, proving that the nightmare and my life were one in the same.

It was all such nonsense but it didn’t feel that way. It _never_ felt that way. Not in the moment.

And even as the dream faded away and whatever monsters I’d dreamt up finally left me alone, real fears took the place of the imagined ones, all my rawest emotions tumbling through my head unbidden. All those feelings that I’d kept at bay during the long weeks of travel, distracted enough by new sights and cordial strangers not to dwell on the thoughts that might otherwise scare me as much as any nightmare.

I was alone here, on Bear Island. Worse than that, my brothers proved that I would be alone no matter where I laid my head. For how could I be anything else—with brothers who cared so little for me that they’d sent me away with a stranger, traded off for a coin purse? Elia and Rhaenys couldn’t save me. Nor Lady Ashara or Ser Barristan, for all their kindness and sympathy.

I was utterly alone in the world. Perhaps I was destined to be alone always.

_But you’re not alone. Jorah’s here. He won’t let anything happen to you._

That same voice spoke in my head again. _My_ voice, although how I could be so confident in this, I couldn’t say. I’d known Jorah Mormont just over a month. And yet…

_Oh Gods, let it be true. Please let him be kind to me._

I found my heart rate slowing, as I could hear Jorah’s steadier heartbeat at my ear and I could feel his deep, even breathing, a rhythmic metronome that soothed my own sobs into gentler sniffs. And he was still speaking, very softly, at my ear, “That’s it. You’re safe. It’s just a bad dream. That’s all it is.”

My eyes were wrecked by tears that I didn’t remember shedding. I wiped my damp cheeks on the front of Jorah’s shirt, one side and then the other, coming to rest against his heart again. And my fingers only relaxed their grip on his collar after a few moments more, once I calmed, finally recognizing with sharper clarity where I was and who I was with.

_You’re on Bear Island, your new home. With Jorah Mormont, your new husband._

Given how we’d been tiptoeing around each other since King’s Landing, I suppose that knowledge should have sent me reeling. I might have pulled away, leaving his arms at once, renewing the distance between us. But I couldn’t do that. The dream’s hold on me was still too powerful and his arms still felt too safe.

He was a shield against darkness and I’d never had that before, not in my whole life. 

I meant to pull away. I meant to murmur my thanks and tell him I was all right now and that I was sorry for disturbing his sleep. I really did.

But I was a thousand miles from home and I didn’t want to be alone. Not any longer. So I kept ahold of Jorah for a long time, so long that I think he might have thought I’d fallen asleep again. And, this time, in his arms.

For soon after, he whispered something that I know he didn’t mean for me to hear. I asked him about it years later and he blushed, almost shyly, on the memory, not realizing that I’d heard him at all. 

Did he press a kiss against my forehead as well? I can’t remember, even if the notion lingers. 

But I certainly remember his words. In the months and then years that followed, I would cling to them as much as I clung to him on that first night. As they were the words of a man who would break no oaths and fail in no promise he ever made to me.

“I’ll never let anything happen to you, lass,” he swore, in gentle but firm tones. He repeated, “Never.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My fave revenge on D&D - making 8x03 and other canon nonsense just a bad dream since 2019 😘


	13. Jeor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jeor & Sam. My new fave duo <3

**_Jeor_ **

“A third raven’s come for you, Lord Commander,” Samwell Tarly announced in a cheery tone, likely marveling at the flurry of activity in the rookery this morning. Three ravens from three cardinal directions—west, south and now east. His round, honest face betrayed his feelings too well. He was curious as to what news the ravens brought us.

At his voice, I stirred. And when I looked up from the other scrolls cluttering my writing desk, I found him lingering at the threshold of my quarters, somewhat timidly. Upon gaining my attention, the Tarly boy gave a tilt of his head that asked, with too much enthusiasm, if he had leave to enter my domain. 

All the new recruits hesitated when coming up to see me. Most of the brothers who’d been here for years did the same. 

I never forced them to wait outside my door. In fact, I can’t remember saying a word about it. But I wasn’t a warm man, naturally, and I suppose the grim frowns that I habitually wore encouraged them all to steer clear, unless the matter was urgent.

Or, in Sam Tarly’s case of three ravens in nearly as many hours, rather insistent.

“Bring it here,” I told him brusquely, beckoning him over with a muted sigh at his eager manner. 

I’d seen some ill fits for the Watch in my day. But Samwell Tarly was something else entirely. The boy’s lack of confidence was rivalled only by his lack of skill in the sword ring, and both would bring him grief up here. He also had a terrible habit of apologizing for _everything_ , even before it was necessary. 

“Sorry to disturb, my lord,” he murmured as he shuffled forward. But then he fumbled as he handed me the scroll, dropping it to the floor just as it might have reached my fingers. 

I would have reached down to snatch it from the stones myself, but Tarly hopped to retrieve it, moving fast for such a big man, going to his hands and knees to reach beneath the wooden table it had rolled beneath. He assured me, “I’ve got it!” 

An “ow” followed, as he bumped his head against the underbelly of that table. He came off the floor, rubbing his scalp briskly, but handed me the scroll with a friendly smile nonetheless, even if that smile showed a little pain at the edges.

I held back another sigh, and tried not to shake my head. Castle Black was no place for any smiles at all. A man needed to be cold to survive this place. Preferably, with a heart made of ice and steel.

Sam Tarly’s heart was all flesh and blood. His manner was all warm smiles and bumbling apologies. Randyll Tarly must have a death wish for his boy. That was the only explanation for his presence here. Nothing else made sense. I couldn’t understand it. Even if he’d been born a second son, he wasn’t made for the Night’s Watch. His father must know that.

If he’d sent him here to be toughened up, that was a cruel thing. And risky. Recruits weren’t coddled up here. Ser Alliser Thorne was a tough but necessary Master-of-Arms. He was fair but rough on the boys, and he had very little pity in him. That’s why he held the position that he did.

Pity had no place at the Wall. Mercy and empathy were in short supply too.

Maester Aemon and I had decided to assign Tarly to the stewards and he was named as Aemon’s apprentice. Thus far, that seemed to have a positive influence on his position here. He seemed most at home in a maester’s chambers anyway, surrounded by inkwells and books instead of sword and steel. His father would have been better off sending him to the Citadel at Oldtown.

Yet, I had to admit—for all his softness, Tarly was resilient too, taking the many jokes and jibes at his expense in stride. No doubt he’d suffered similar, or worse, from his father at Horn Hill. He’d been with us for over a month now and he wasn’t huddled and crying in a corner. Two of the other recent recruits, Grenn and Pyp, had taken a liking to him as well, standing up for him in the yard, so maybe Tarly would survive us yet.

I’d seen men beat worse odds. 

And he had another on his side that likely kept the pettier, crueler boys from tormenting him as they would have otherwise—a snow-white direwolf that Benjen had brought back from Winterfell.

That direwolf was a gift bestowed on the Night’s Watch by House Stark. Ned and his sons had found six abandoned pups in the woods while they were out hunting. But Ned Stark had only five children, so the runt was sent back with Benjen when he returned with the latest batch of recruits, to be returned to his homeland above the Wall.

He’d yet to leave us, not fully grown and perhaps missing his pack. We were growing used to him. One of the boys called him Ghost and the name stuck. 

The direwolf kept to himself mostly, a near wild creature prowling the cold castle, looking for scraps in the kitchen, sitting up on his haunches in the yard, alert and watching the boys spar and fight with intelligent, red-flecked eyes. 

He often slept, curled at my feet while I wrote at this desk, which I can’t say I minded. 

The scruffy raven that shared my quarters would flit his wings nervously at the direwolf’s presence, dancing on sharp, fidgeting talons. When the wolf plodded in, he’d alight from his perch on the back of my chair to take a spot on the window sill across the snug chamber, too uneasy with a natural predator being so close. Especially one that tended to watch the bird’s movements with lazy interest, those red eyes raised and following the flutter of wings, even while his white chin rested on furry paws. 

But, with time, even the raven was becoming accustomed to our newest mascot. He still kept his distance but resumed his squawking calls for “Corn!” at all hours of the day—greedy thing. 

Of all the men and beasts at Castle Black, Ghost took to Tarly best. Likely because the boy was generous with his brown meat at supper and had a gentle hand. Wild or not, only the most broken of creatures would turn from the sort of kindness and easy manner that Sam peddled.

His father must be a cold, hard man, indeed. I’d accuse him outright of being a terrible father but had lost my own right to judge the relationships of fathers and sons a long time ago.

“That’s three scrolls in one day, Commander,” Tarly continued, jovial as always. He rocked back on his heels, declaring, “You’re a very popular man…”

“Aye,” I muttered, breaking the seal on the third with my thumb. 

I waited to read this one, keeping the parchment furled, as my gaze flickered back up to Lord Tarly’s son, sensing he had more to say. I drummed my fingers across the desk once, waiting to see if he might quell his natural inquisitiveness. 

He must know how inappropriate it was for him to linger after delivering that message. And yet, his curiosity wouldn’t allow him to leave without asking one last question. 

I’d scold him, but, much like Maester Aemon and the foundling direwolf, I found it hard to dislike the boy. Against my better judgment, I was becoming used to his ways as well, and hoped Ser Alliser didn’t beat down all his impulses, even if it would be better for him in the long run.

“Good news, I hope?” Sam gave a guarded smile, eyebrows darting up a hair, too impertinent for his own good. I should have growled at him and chased him out with a lesson on how stewards should be seen and not heard, but I didn’t…

I tapped that third scroll on its edge, gaze moving back to the others, wondering if this one would carry the same tidings. 

Those first two scrolls had put me in a strange humor, and I was still processing their contents. Two scrolls—one from Lord Varys in King’s Landing and another from my sister on Bear Island. I’d read Maege’s message first, as I’d always choose a bear seal over one marked with dragons.

_Jorah has taken a wife…_

The news astonished me, even thought I’d expected to hear something very like it years ago. I’d thought he would remarry soon after Mara Glover passed, within the year even. My son was too young to stay widowed for long. He needed to enjoy his youth; he needed to father sons and daughters who would bring him joy. But as time passed, and Jorah failed to remarry, I worried over it, realizing that perhaps he took after me even more than I’d ever imagined. 

I hoped not, as I didn’t want him going down the same path that had led me here, to the Watch. It was a darkness that would eat him alive if he let it.

I suppose I might have told him that myself and warned him against it. I penned a dozen letters to my son after I heard his wife had died, but I crumpled up each and every one and threw the pages into a fire. I watched the ink bleed, with parchment edges curling up, as the flames burned them all to ash. 

I couldn’t think of what to say. And so I sent nothing at all.

What good would it have done? The words never seemed enough, because how could they be? How could I say I understood when I knew that to be impossible? How could I send him condolences when I’d shunned the ones sent to me after Julia died, cringing on polite words that did nothing to fill the gaping hole that was left in my chest. 

I hated the way they all wrote about her, in past tense and mournful sorrow—as if she’d been made of tears, sickness and death, when I knew Julia to be made of wildflowers, song and _life_. 

They didn’t understand. How could they? And so I resented their kind words and wished they’d never sent them. Her sweet name repeated, over and over again, in letter after letter: 

_Last Hearth sends their deepest regrets on the surprise passing of Lady Julia…_

_Winterfell joins your sorrow in mourning the Lady Julia…_

Pleasant words that meant nothing at all. Of course, they couldn’t join me in my sorrow. It was a black sea without land in sight. I pushed my own son away for fear I’d drown him too.

And I’ve begun to suspect that maybe I did anyway. I haven’t asked him. Jorah and I speak rarely these days. 

He sends me news occasionally—of the Island, of the girls’ health, of wildlings sighted in the Bay of Ice. 

Bear Island has always been the most westerly territory in the country. The western edge of the Wall ended at the Shadow Tower, and yet Bear Island was westerly still. The northern half of the island faced the Frozen Shore, with less than thirty leagues between them. Open country, without walls or crows of any kind.

Wildlings from that frosty shore had raided Bear Island for centuries. On clear nights, we could see campfires blink out across the water. And there was always a chance that the savage men of the north would someday take it into their heads to become seafaring folk and bypass the Wall by crossing the choppy waters to Deepwood Motte instead.

For hundreds of years, the Lord Commander of Castle Black and the presiding Lord or Lady of Bear Island had traded news, if only to mark and track the movements of wildlings up in the lands of snow and ice.

Jorah and I kept to this custom, perhaps sending a few more reports than might be necessary. But it was still the curt correspondence of the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch and one of the northern lords and no more. 

We never talked about his mother. We never talked about the reasons I left. He didn’t send me the news of his marriage or how it had come about. I hadn’t seen him in the flesh in ten years.

“My son has married the princess,” I let Tarly know, as there was no reason not to share the news. The others would know soon enough. 

The scroll from King’s Landing was an official court announcement, to be shared with all residents of Castle Black. The marriage of a member of the royal family was always to be celebrated, even a thousand miles away. King Rhaegar, through his Master of Whisperers, bade us drink a tankard of ale to his sister’s health tonight.

As if the men here—all rapists and petty thieves and sons who displeased their fathers—cared that Princess Daenerys Targaryen was wed? 

“Well, that’s wonderful!” Tarly was the exception once again, too animated and knowing too little about any of it. He must have noticed the frown that lingered on my face, for he asked, with less certainly, “…isn’t it?”

_Lord Jorah Mormont of Bear Island has married Princess Daenerys Targaryen._

Written out in plain letters like that, it seemed a great honor. My only son had married a princess of Westeros. But I found much disconcertion in the news. Maege had been short on details, as always, and the letter from the Spider merely confirmed that my son had married the girl. 

But Jorah didn’t frequent King’s Landing and House Targaryen and House Mormont had no ties that would make this marriage a likely thing. The princess was younger than Jorah by nearly twenty years and to my knowledge, they’d never met before. Maege would have said if this had been preceded by a courtship and she said nothing at all except that he’d married her. 

And the news from the capital carried a note of afterthought. Otherwise, we would have received news of a betrothal first, as they’d sent news of Prince Viserys and Cersei Lannister some time ago, and that wedding had yet to take place.

For the life of me, I couldn’t imagine how this had come about. And that unsettled me. It was a Mormont trait to mistrust good fortune, that’s true. But there were reasons for this. Good fortune, at least the kind the southerners all hold so dear—wealth and privilege and triumphing in games of court—was rare in our corner of the world.

“Ask Maester Aemon if he’d come down to see me, Tarly,” I commanded him, with a sobering shortness to my tone, neglecting to answer his question, as I wasn’t sure how to reply. 

Maester Aemon might have some insight. He was born a dragon, after all. Perhaps he might know why his great-great grand-niece had been married off to my son. Perhaps not. But I turned to Maester Aemon often, in any case, as the old man gave good counsel. I needed his counsel now. And not just on my son’s marriage.

The third scroll wasn’t about Jorah or Daenerys Targaryen at all. 

It took only a few seconds for me to recognize Cotter Pyke’s handwriting. The commander of Eastwatch-by-the-Sea wrote in a slanted scrawl. His words were grim things, reporting odd movements by the wildlings and a chilly tale of corpses that his rangers found arranged in patterns in the blood-stained snow. 

This wasn’t the first report of such things. They were becoming more and more frequent as winter drew closer. And something about this impending winter sat very ill with me, sending a chill down my spine that couldn’t be blamed on the fast-fading summer alone.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tarly nod his head to me and take his leave, hurrying on his way.

“Tarly?” I called him back once, impulsively.

“Yes, Lord Commander?” he turned at the top of the stairs.

“Any word on Benjen Stark’s return yet?” I asked, tapping the edge of that scroll on my desk again.

“No, my lord,” he said.

 _No._ I thought as much, waving Tarly on his way. I could feel the lines on my face deepen as my frown grew a shade darker and the raven chattering on my window sill repeated out a harsh, “ _No!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're feeling bad that Ghost is at the Wall instead of with Jon Snow in this AU, just remember that: 1) Ghost spent almost as much time with Sam in canon than Jon, 2) Jon Baratheon is currently hunting in the woods with his dad, Bobby, and probably has a whole pack of hounds that love him so he's fine and 3) Jon will hang out with Ghost briefly before the end of this story so they can bond then ;)


	14. Jory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jory Mormont, Wildflower Bear. With Mama's pretty curls, captured perfectly by salzrand <3

**_Jory_ **

I decided I liked the princess. A lot.

I liked her from the moment she stepped off the ship, all hesitant and shy and holding fast to Jorah’s hand. She was visibly nervous when Jorah presented her to us, but there was something fierce hiding just behind her eyes too. I liked that.

I liked her at dinner, when Mother made a toast to the new couple’s health and happiness, and Daenerys spoke up and said, “And to you—and all in this house, my lady.” Her voice stumbled just a little when she said it, unused to making speeches, and that’s why I liked it. 

She hadn’t rehearsed the words, they just spilled out. 

And I liked her even more the next morning when I saw her come downstairs and wait on the landing in the hall, a little bleary-eyed from what must have been a sleepless night. 

My sisters would smirk and say it was that old Bear Islander endurance that kept our new cousin up until late hours—their first night home as newlyweds and all that. 

She tarried on the landing, her hand coming away from the bannister slowly. She gave a look around the unfamiliar surroundings, taking them in with a neutral expression on her face. She regarded grey stone and evergreen timber, adorned with sparse ornamentation, a woven tapestry of waterfalls and woods, shields carrying our sigil, two crossed swords further down. 

She seemed to be attempting to gain her bearings, as she likely wasn’t sure which hall led to which chamber yet. She hadn’t been here a full day. 

There was a sound of boots scraping stone from the floor above. And I watched her eyes soften and her posture relax as she caught sight of Jorah coming down, not long behind her. 

Jorah was fastening his cloak as he descended the stairs, as the autumn rains were back again, fat raindrops bouncing off the rafters since dawn, and he’d be down in the harbor village before the end of the hour. He would be busy today, as he’d been away for many weeks and there was much to catch up on. His captains and stewards were all in line and waiting for his attention. 

Jorah had worked hard to make sure the Island could manage in its lord’s absence but it certainly ran smoother when he was at home. Just having him back under the same roof gave the Keep a sense of calm that was missing while he was gone. We all hated when Jorah went away, even to Deepwood Motte or Winterfell. We’d never tell him that, of course. But his presence tended to banish away all ills, whether great or small.

I believe Princess Daenerys must have discovered this part of his personality quite quickly after her marriage, as I kept seeing relief color her features whenever her gaze drifted his way, both down at the harbor and at dinner the night before. And again, now, as she watched him come down the stairs while sending a small smile his way.

He smiled back immediately, and with more fondness in his expression than I’d seen in a long, long time.

I wasn’t spying or anything, not intentionally. But when Jorah made it to the landing, his eyes were on her and hers were on him. As if there was nothing and no one else in existence. They looked at each other in an almost unbreakable way, certainly a _distracted_ way, as they failed to catch sight of me, just down the hall. 

Anyway, I thought it would be rude to interrupt them. Jarring even, as they looked so oblivious to everything else. Again, newlyweds and all that. So I slowed my steps and remained a little further down the hall while I waited for them to say whatever it was they wished to say to each other in private.

I couldn’t hear them but I saw Jorah’s hand come up to rest at her elbow, lightly and…was he being careful not to presume too much? I watched the princess flush a little at that touch. One would think she must be used to his hands on her by now? They’d been married for over a month.

Her gaze was still fixed on his face and she nodded at whatever he said, with an expression grimmer than I’d expect—at least after their first night at home. 

But maybe she still had to settle in? I could understand that. It had only been a day and she was so far from home. King’s Landing was much closer to Dorne than Bear Island. She might as well have travelled from Volantis or Lys. And I think that’s why I softened to her so quickly, as if she were a lost lamb out in the woods, too afraid the wild bears would carry her off.

She shouldn’t worry. Wild bears were fierce but they wouldn’t hurt a lamb. At least, not the bears that lived within these walls. 

I knew it would take Mother and the other girls longer to come around and maybe they were wise to reserve judgment, but I couldn’t find any reason not to like her. Last night at dinner, she thanked me for the bouquet of wildflowers and tried her best to remember our names, which is more than most mainlanders tend to do, always calling us “Maege’s girls”, as if we’re a matched set.

Which…well, we are, of course. We’re close in temperament, nobody can deny that, and I can usually guess what each one of my sisters is thinking, even without asking them. But still, we do have our own names. And it’s not that hard to commit them to memory if a person has a mind to try. 

Daenerys _did_ try, even if she mixed me up with Lyra once, when she met me at the entrance to the feast hall. I corrected her instantly—not one to let the mistake pass. 

“Jory,” I said flatly, but then I made sure to follow up with an encouraging smile too.

“Jory,” the princess muttered under her breath, before saying it again, letting her mouth sink into the syllables, “Jory.” She seemed frustrated with herself for the simple mistake, closing her eyes and committing it to memory. She promised me, “I won’t forget again.”

“It’s all right,” I told her, with a shrug of my shoulders. I didn’t mind. The effort was enough. And I added, “You’ll have it down soon.”

She nodded, unconvinced but willing to take my word for it. She then bit her lip softly, her words for me but her eyes drifting back to my cousin, who was across the hall, speaking with some of the sailors. She asked, curious, “Were you named after Jorah?”

“Aye,” my smile went wide, proud of that fact. “Mother used to call him ‘Jory’ when he was young and I think she missed the sound of it after he grew up. So she gave the name to me.”

“It’s lovely,” the princess mentioned. And I think she meant it, but her attention was still on Jorah and her voice had drifted away to a murmur, so I knew her thoughts were on other things. I took no offense. She was a bride brought back to her husband’s house. I’m sure her mind was occupied, and her thoughts ran in many different directions.

Or _one_ direction, in particular.

Oh, how her cheeks turned pink when Jorah finally felt eyes upon him and looked her way. I knew little about love but much about wading out into rushing waters and the feel of being almost swept away. I’d guess they were about knee deep in it—whatever _it_ was—by that time.

In the feast hall, she’d answered his smile with one of her own, and neglected to look away for a long moment. I don’t think she noticed when I left her side to go take my seat beside Lyra, too deep in that shared glance with Jorah. 

It was the same this morning, as she looked up at him, sharing smiles and speaking in soft tones. I thought he might kiss her on the stairs and grinned to myself, mischievously, as I’d be able to share the minor gossip with my sisters later on.

They stood very close and Jorah appeared fixated by her lips. The intensity of the look passing between them was strong enough that I found I had to look away, at the stones at my feet, at the great pine logs forming the inner wall of the Keep. My grin deepened as I waited for them to finish. But when I risked another peek, I watched Jorah pull away without that farewell kiss, perhaps too shy around his new bride, perhaps not reckless enough to try it in such conspicuous chambers.

My grin fell away a little though, contemplating another possible reason too—that my cousin was being foolish and that maybe things weren’t quite as settled between Jorah and Daenerys as we all assumed.

Well, it was none of my business. And I’d stalled long enough. 

I came forward just as Jorah’s hand fell away from the princess’s arm and he left her, maybe a little reluctantly given the cadence of his steps, but off to errands that would occupy him throughout the day. He was so distracted that I don’t think he noticed me at all, as he would have had to look the opposite way. And after forcibly pulling his eyes away from Daenerys, I suspect he was walking those halls without discerning sight.

Daenerys might not have noticed me either, as I have a softer footfall than any of my sisters. It’s true. I can creep up on rabbits and pheasants, even as nervous and skittish as they are. I almost tripped over a sleeping fawn in the underbrush once, curled up and white-spotted and breathing quietly in dreams of clover and sweet grass, I expect. 

Mother says it’s damned annoying that she doesn’t know when I’m coming, but she’s the one who taught me how to track in the woods, so I don’t see how she can complain about it.

But I made myself known to the princess, by purposefully heightening the sound of my entrance as I approached the landing.

“Morning,” I spoke up first, keeping my voice friendly. 

She didn’t hide her surprise at this greeting. A happy surprise, I think. She was a little afraid of the others, even if she hadn’t mentioned it. She needn’t be. 

Dacey and Alysane were all show. I could tell Dacey was softening towards our new cousin-in-law already. And she’d bring Aly around with little trouble. Lyra would be even easier, even if Daenerys likely took Lyra’s observations as judgments, as Lyra often forgot to smile when she was lost in thought and her eyes held a depth that could be intimidating to someone who didn’t know her. 

Daenerys was right to steer clear of Mother. For now, at least. But for all Mother’s sternness and prejudice against the mainlanders, it didn’t take much to get on her good side either. 

A strong will, a good heart. And even though I’d known Daenerys Stormborn for less than a day, I would guess she had both. 

She was so pretty. Her hair was like something from a fairy tale. I’d never seen that color before. Not ever. The grey streaks in mother’s hair were coarse and steel-colored, like the sharpened edge of a battle axe. But Daenerys’s hair was silver-blonde silk, falling down her back like the silver-white veil of our waterfalls. 

But more than her beauty, she had a very nice smile, open and warm. No games. I liked that. 

“Good morning,” she replied, fidgeting, with her fingers interlacing at her waist. She was nervous, sure, but not afraid. She paused for only a half-second before she added, “Jory…right?”

“Right,” I nodded, granting her a smile. 

Her own expression broke into a grin too, relieved, as she was pleased that she remembered. Again, she needn’t have worried. I would have liked her even if she’d forgotten my name again.

“Jorah’s already abandoned you?” I observed, with a shake of my head that was in faux displeasure at my cousin’s expense.

“No, he had to go down to—,” she started, already making excuses for Jorah. That was a good sign.

“I know,” I assured her before she could finish. “It was just in jest.” 

“Oh,” she mentioned, swallowing back the rest of her words. Her eyes were alight with so many things—curiosity at her new surroundings, wonder at this wild place, care in not offending me and…some other things I couldn’t account for, although I’m sure they all had to do with Jorah.

“He’ll be back soon,” I told her, knowing he likely said the same. She nodded, her eyes absently drifting in the direction he’d gone, almost wistfully.

We didn’t know each other well enough to share secrets yet. And besides, as I said, I knew little about love. I was only fifteen that year and still too much a child of the woods to care much for marriages and children and all of that. If Dacey had yet to settle down, it would be awhile before anyone forced _me_ into it.

At that thought, my heard softened even further…remembering that Daenerys didn’t have a choice. I already felt something like indignation that anyone would take that choice away from her. I wondered how she could stand it, honestly. Someday, I’d ask her directly and she’d tell me about her awful brother and how being born a princess wasn’t something she’d wish on any little girl. 

My sisters and I would nod amongst ourselves, telling her that she was wise in this.

But it was too early in the morning and too early in our acquaintance to get into all that. So I kept my tone light and asked the next best thing, “Would you like some breakfast?”


	15. Jorah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is all about Bear Island #FisherFriends (a term coined by my Partner-In-Fluff, salzrand, and to be used forevermore now 😂) <3

**_Jorah_ **

“The catch has been steady all summer and better than I’ve seen in a long time. But nothing like you’d need to bring in these numbers…,” Jayse Fisk shook his head from side to side, puffing on his pipe. He was looking over the figures I’d hastily written down, scribbled on the torn scrap of parchment between us. 

It was all rough calculations—winter provisions, tribute to the crown, existing trade agreements with the other harbors, and outstanding debts—the last number had nearly tripled after my journey to King’s Landing.

I didn’t regret it. I’d do it again. Looking back, I think, even by then, I might have traded off the whole of Bear Island, waterfalls and all, to make certain that a soft smile would always hover on the princess’s lips. 

Daenerys stirred something fierce in me that grew stronger by the day. 

That first night home—when I’d held her in my arms after she woke from that nightmare, I found myself hoping that I might never hear her cry again, as the sound of her tears tore at my heart in a way that felt raw.

Old pain lingered in my heart, a hollow ache that I’d grown used to. But there was something blooming _behind_ the pain now, filling in hollow spaces. Something lighter, something almost like hope.

A hope that said Daenerys might not be completely dismayed that she was here on Bear Island. Here, with me. Did she mind that my arms were the ones she found refuge in? After that nightmare, she’d fallen asleep clinging to me. And I’d woken again last night, to find the dragon girl curled around me once more, nestled against my side, head buried against my chest.

By morning, she’d returned to her side of the bed. But did she do so reluctantly? Did she feel the same cold as I, when her hand was no longer resting on my chest?

I hadn’t slept in the same bed with a woman for too many years to count. I’d forgotten…

But I didn’t yet have the courage to ask her how she felt, or if I merely stood in for some handsome boy she’d left behind in King’s Landing, holding onto me while dreaming of him. I was too afraid of the answer and too afraid that I was playing myself for a fool. 

So I said nothing. I busied myself with work instead, a grim but necessary business, and tried to put Daenerys out of my head for a few hours, seeking out old friends who might bring me some clarity of thought. 

Jayse Fisk’s head wouldn’t stop shaking, slowly but surely, as he reviewed my numbers, likely running his own calculations in his head. We were sitting together at his kitchen table, with his harbor-facing windows open to the late summer air. I could hear all the familiar sounds of Ynes Lyme drifting in, the call of seagulls and a boatswain’s whistle, the _swoosh_ of unfurled masts and the rambling roll of barrels over dock planking. Sailors and fishermen hollered out to each other. Children were running and playing nearby. 

The cottage was snug but homey, and one I’d been visiting since I was a young boy. It always smelled of pipe smoke, salt fish, and sea air, but mountain wildflowers too, as Jayse’s wife, Ivy, always kept a fresh vase of flowers in the summer months. 

Jayse shook his head a little more forcefully as he finally set my scribbled notes aside. He leaned back in his wooden chair, balancing the spindly thing on two legs as he reached towards a teetering stack of papers piled high on a pantry shelf just behind him. He held his pipe stem tight between his teeth, as he tossed aside a manifest and an old black ledger, pulling out another, this one bound in red-brown leather, from halfway down the pile.

A puff of smoke escaped his lips as he realized that he’d thrown off the integrity of the whole pile by pulling the leather-bound volume free too fast. A warning grunt escaped his throat and his second hand came out to catch the tottering stack, but he was balanced awkwardly in that chair and nearly fell with the attempt. He might have too, had Ivy not jumped away from the hearth on quick feet, coming to his aid at the very last moment. 

She caught his chair and straightened the pile with little trouble, wiping her damp hands on her apron before pushing the papers back a little further still, out of reach now but safe from spilling all over the floor. 

Before she returned to her hearth and the boiling pot hanging over it, she gave Jayse a light smack to the back of his head, scolding him with a mumbled, “What did I tell you about leaning back in that chair?” 

“Nothing happened, woman,” Jayse grumbled back, his diction tested by the perennial presence of that pipe in his mouth. But these were rehearsed lines, spoken many times over. They’d exchanged at least a dozen versions in my hearing over the last thirty years. 

Ivy didn’t bother replying, but she rolled her eyes at her boiling vegetables just the same. Jayse missed it, as he’d brought that thick, leather-bound ledger to rest on the table between us with a heavy _thunk_ , wetting his thumb and first finger to flip through pages. When he reached his most recent entries, he said, “Ah! Here you go.”

Jayse spun the ledger round on its spine so that it faced me. Then he leaned back in his chair again, taking that pipe from his mouth to rest it on his knee. The front legs of that chair came off the kitchen stone once again, and I raised my eyes briefly to watch Jayse cast a defiant look in Ivy’s direction.

But she wasn’t paying any attention to her husband now, already back to stirring whatever it was that simmered in that black pot. 

It smelled delicious, whatever it was. As a young woman, Ivy had spent time in Mormont Keep as a kitchen maid, so I could attest to her talents in that regard firsthand. But I wasn’t hungry today, my appetite chased far away as I pulled that ledger a little closer, letting it rest beneath my hand, as I scanned the captain’s log with a frown that only deepened as the minutes ticked by.

Jayse Fisk was a conscientious man, despite his wife’s compelling arguments otherwise. He was finicky about his records and not one to exaggerate. He was one of the best fishermen on Bear Island, having started at the nets when he was only eight years old. By the time I was born, he was captain of his own vessel, not quite sixteen, and still struggling to grow a full beard. 

And here, in the confident, black strokes of his pen, were records from the last however many years, with the past four months noted on the page currently under my scrutiny. Daily tallies from the catch and current prices on the mainland were all notated in neat, clear rows, without flourish.

Like he said, we’d had a good year. But I needed about three of those at once to make up the deficit I was now facing.

“The weather won’t turn for a while yet,” I mentioned, more to myself than the captain. It was optimistic of me to think this way and I knew better. Summer could linger for another year and it still wouldn’t be enough. And the Stark words were ringing in my head more insistently lately, with a few chillier gales coming out of the North.

_Winter is coming. And how will you afford your payments to Lord Lannister then?_

Jayse’s pipe returned to his lips, with wisps of smoke trailing the movement of his weathered hand, “Yes, but you know as well as I do how fast that can happen in this part of the world. Once the ice starts forming, it’s dangerous to be out on the water and the fish go into hiding, too deep for our nets.”

I resisted the urge to argue with his good sense, briefly wondering if I could increase the numbers in Jayse’s ledger tenfold by just staring at them long enough. 

“Eh, but don’t fret on it so much, boy. We’ll hold steady, as we always have,” Jayse reached out and poked at my arm with his pipe stem, good-naturedly. He must have seen how my shoulders slumped, and my features betrayed me too easily. But he must have thought my worry was more for the cold seasons to come. He assured me, “We’ll have enough to get through a long winter, to be sure.”

“And it’ll be a long one this time, make no mistake,” Ivy spoke up from her pot, giving me a stern warning that was equal parts fishwives’ gossip and her own deeply-rooted knowledge, born of the First Men we were all descended from. She brought her ladle up, gesturing in a loop and dripping some broth on the brick stones as she confirmed, “All the signs point to it.”

“You and your signs,” Jayse snorted, his greying head shaking from side to side again. I’m sure he agreed with her, despite the barb, but this would always be their way. 

“Wooly worms on the forest path and no red birds on the Island. Not a single one to be found. Even Jory Mormont can’t track one down. That means a long winter ahead. My Gran would box your ears if she heard you say any different, Jayse. And I’ll stick to my signs, thank you very much,” Ivy told him, with vigor. She added, “I wouldn’t have married _you_ without one of those signs, just remember that.”

“A frost pattern on your window…,” Jayse mutters with little enthusiasm, as he’d heard the whole story more than a few times in his life.

“A frost pattern that spelled out your name,” she corrected him smartly, while dipping her ladle down into the concoction and bringing a spoonful of broth close to her lips. Gingerly, she blew on the liquid before tasting it. When the broth hit her tongue, she made a face, and reached for a shallow dish of sea salt. 

“Gods thank the frost then,” Jayse replied, rather flippantly, while puffing on that pipe. 

His words were glib things but his merry eyes said he was serious. And he smiled broadly at Ivy while her back was turned to us, lifting his eyebrows once in mirth when he met my gaze once more. 

But soon, he let that chair come to rest on all four legs, as he reached forward and laid a hand on the page I studied so closely, tapping two of his weather-rough fingers against the parchment. “They’re fine numbers, my lord. Don’t tie yourself into knots over them.”

Jayse only used the formal “my lord” when he wanted me to listen to him. He didn’t have to use any titles at all, honestly. We went way back. He was a mainstay of my childhood, as he used to spend a lot of time hovering outside the servant’s entrance of the Keep, waiting for Ivy. 

When I was a boy, he used to sneak me onto the boats for a day out on the open sea with the fishermen. He’d dress me up in a village boy’s ragged coat and oversized cap, and then work me as hard as his other sailors.

 _Don’t tell your aunt_ , he’d make me swear, with a wink at the end of the day. Then he’d crush that cap down over my eyes, before slinging his bag high up on his shoulder and walking the length of the quay to greet Ivy with a kiss. She’d slip her hand through his arm and they’d bicker all the way home. 

I’d hurry back to the Keep, hoping I wasn’t too late, hoping I hadn’t been missed. By Aunt Maege, at least. I knew Father didn’t miss me. 

Those days, Father rarely knew I was there.

“I don’t know about red birds and wooly worms, but there’s been fog in the Bay and campfires dotting the beaches up along the Frozen Shore,” Jayse admitted, conceding in part to Ivy’s prior words. He suggested, somewhat gently, “You may want to write to your father…”

I nodded at this, without saying anything one way or another. He was pushing a little, as always, but knew better than to go too deeply into that subject.

“Are you going to stay for dinner, Jorah?” Ivy wondered, after a few minutes more. 

“No, I have to get back,” I told her, finally closing Jayse’s ledger for good and handing it back to him. “But thank you.”

“Aye,” she grinned at me, knowingly. Ivy was a clever woman. As clever as my cousins. This was no surprise, as there was as much old Mormont blood in the roots of her family tree as ours. And she fished as well as her husband, perhaps better, by asking slyly, “I’m sure you want to get back to that young bride of yours?”

Oh, Ivy didn’t know the half of it. And Daenerys didn’t either. Those same feelings from earlier came back in a rush, flooding my senses with sudden images, sights and sounds that didn’t belong to me. 

Not yet.

Here, in this snug, fisherman’s cottage, with those harbor sounds in the background and the snap of a hearth fire close by—I suddenly pictured Daenerys right where Ivy stood. And I heard her humming away as she gathered up potatoes and carrots and dropped them into a stew with two hands. And I could almost feel the weight of a heavy book, thick as Jayse’s leather-bound ledger, pushed into my lap. I imagined a little girl with red-blonde hair and a silver streak above her ear place her tiny hands on the faded cover and say, _Read this to me, Papa?_

The force of that image was strong indeed, and I wondered where it had come from. And why I should crave it so. I knew better than to expect, or want…

But I answered Ivy with a plain and polite, “Yes,” hoping my answer would appease her obvious curiosity without giving her any further details. Ivy was as discrete as anyone, perhaps more so—she’d known about my mother and father before anyone else on this Island but she’d never betrayed my mother’s trust. She’d never breathed a word to my grandfather that his son was falling in love with a servant girl. 

She seemed a little disappointed by my tone, even as her grin remained wide, her brown eyes searching my face in a way that let me know I couldn’t hide much from her. 

“You’ll have to give her a tour of the harbor villages,” she told me pointedly, before musing to Jayse, “A princess on Bear Island—how terribly romantic.”

“How is a princess coming to Bear Island romantic?” Jayse wondered with a shrug, inhaling on that pipe before sending a few rings into the air.

“ _You_ wouldn’t know anything about romance, my love,” Ivy brushed away his rings of smoke as she waltzed across the room again. She snatched his pipe from his mouth and held it behind her back. He protested immediately, but she held out a wagging first finger, “No, remember? We agreed. You can smoke in the house until you do something that vexes me.”

“Everything vexes you, _my love_ ,” he argued, but in a way that said he was amused by her. He’d been amused by Ivy for thirty years and the shine had yet to wear off. 

She laughed as she spun away from her captain’s half-hearted grasp, taking a draw on the pipe herself before emptying the burning embers into the coals of the hearth. She blew smoke out of the side of her mouth as she stirred her pot, with a self-satisfied grin on her face. 

Later, when I finally left, Ivy gave me a warm hug farewell, saying, “It’s good to have you home. And bring your wife by the house. I want to see this girl who’s brought spring into your eyes again.”


	16. Daenerys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter went so long! But a little bonding with the Mormont girls and a healthy side-helping of #AwkwardLobsters so hopefully you all don't mind <3 ...plus salzrand capturing their awkwardness in action with her usual and ever-brilliant flair ;)

**_Daenerys_ **

Those first few weeks on Bear Island will always be a blur to me. 

There was too much newness in it—new names, new faces, new landscapes. Mormont Keep was a small castle but I still found myself getting lost in its twisting corridors and hidden staircases those first few days. And it was the little things more than the change of place itself—morning routines, unfamiliar voices in the hall, tastes and smells that I wasn’t used to—that kept throwing me off. 

It was a dizzying flood of new sensations and, on top of that, a dizzying flood of emotion—which I mistook for the ache of homesickness mixed with the giddy nerves of being in a foreign place. 

And I’m sure that was some of it. But certainly not all of it. 

I’d never been in love before. Not in my whole life. So I suppose that’s why it took me so long to realize what was happening to me. 

There were a number of men who showed me keen attention in King’s Landing. But the attention had started so early—before I was aware of what it might mean—and followed such predictable patterns, that I never really gave it more than passing notice, assuming those men were just flattering me for my family name, as I was the king’s sister. 

They said I was beautiful, but what did that mean? A rose is beautiful, but so is a seashell. And they don’t look the same at all.

Besides, I’d grown up without any notion of what true love looked like, as the marriages and affairs that filled the royal court were most often built on lies, power and control. My mother had cowered in fear before my father and Elia had told me exactly how Rhaegar showed his love for her. And perhaps he was kinder with Lyanna Baratheon—but who would know? It was a love played in the shadows and tainted by years of deceit. Who knew what that clandestine love would look like when hauled out into stark sunlight? 

The sort of love that the poets talked about—unhurried but passionate, all-consuming but tender too—was pure nonsense to me. The kind of love that soared and hoped and dreamed and made plans. I knew nothing of it…

Until I came to Bear Island. 

Many weeks passed as I slowly became accustomed to a place that I—and I shudder to think on this now, years later, as my children would be aghast to hear it—might not have been able to point out on a map a short six months before. 

The North had been a mystery to me for so long. I had a vague picture in my head of a winter forest covered in snow. I knew it only as a vast and frozen wasteland, populated by men and women who were uncouth and rough-mannered, at best, and wild and savage, at worst. 

But there was no snow here—not yet. And the people were…different from what I thought they’d be. I honestly don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this.

I was so worried that Jorah’s family would have nothing to do with me. When we first arrived, Maege and her daughters had been lined up to meet us on the dock at the harbor. Seeing those girls all in a row, battle-tested maids and fierce sisters—I was intimidated by them. They were all taller than me, save the littlest one, and their expressions were so stern and reserved. 

I knew I should be proud and hold my chin up high. Rhaegar and Viserys would have marched past the Mormonts without a word of greeting. My brothers would have seethed to hear the trembling doubts that danced in my head, sternly scolding me and telling me to treat these provincial peasants with the disdain they deserved. 

_No one looks down on a dragon_ , Viserys was always so rigid in this. He would say it again and again. _No one._

But I had no right to look down on my husband’s family. I had no right to blame them for their suspicions. I was the stranger here. I was the one coming in and claiming the title of Lady of Bear Island, their home, when I knew nothing about it. I didn’t know the names of any of the villages dotting this coast. Or the song birds that trilled at Jorah’s bedroom window just before dawn, gently waking me. I couldn’t name a single constellation in this northern sky. 

Jorah’s hand gently squeezed mine and kept me steady while I met his family. A shared smile with one of the younger Mormont girls—small as it was—acted as a promise that perhaps my worst fears were unwarranted.

Jorelle made good on that promise soon enough. 

On the first morning, after Jorah left me for errands that he couldn’t put off any longer, I was suddenly hit by the sheer weight of being so far from home. Every step he took from me increased a feeling of terrible loneliness that I’d been staving off successfully since we left King’s Landing.

Jorah would always be able to chase away any thoughts of loneliness. At the time, I didn’t quite understand the significance of this, or why it should be so easy for me to accept all these changes so long as he was nearby. I remember thinking that he was my last remaining link to home.

Not understanding that _he_ was my home. 

But Jory Mormont found me almost instantly after Jorah left and I didn’t have time to ponder on anything so somber, as she had a warm, open manner that set me at ease almost as well as her cousin. She reminded me of Rhaenys from the first, as they were the same age. I took to her with little hesitation, grateful for a friend among strangers.

Jory led me through the castle that first day, pointing out the main chambers and the halls and staircases that led between them. She said that it was nearly impossible to get lost since the castle was so small, so I should just explore at my pleasure, “And if you end up in Dacey’s chambers by mistake, just smile and back away slowly. That always works for me.”

“Which chamber is Dacey’s?” I asked.

“It’s the one with two dozen morningstars hung along the walls,” Jory grinned, her eyes shining bright with high spirits. “She’s been collecting them since she was Lyanna’s age. Mother never really warmed to the idea of dolls” 

“Oh,” I replied, maybe a little too dejectedly, as intimidated by these northern women as ever. 

She must have realized that her words didn’t exactly fall the way she’d intended, since she made sure to add, with reassurance, “Don’t worry about Dacey and the others. They’ll keep their distance for a while but they only care if Jorah’s happy.”

Those words struck an even deeper chord with me. I was tempted to ask Jory the question that breezed into my head immediately—was he happy? Was he happy I was here or just being polite? I couldn’t tell. Not then. Not even a few weeks later, after I’d nearly given up trying to summon the courage to ask him myself. 

The longer we were here on the island, the more work he seemed to find to occupy his time. I rarely saw him during daylight hours. So if I were to ask him, it would have to be in our bedchamber, whispered across the narrow space that separated us on the shared mattress—a narrow space I sometimes breached in the middle of the night without realizing it.

No, I couldn’t ask him then. If I did, I’d have to ask him if I could stay in his arms all night, and I wasn’t sure I had any claim to do that, even if I was his wife. I wasn’t sure if I could stand it if the answer was “no.”

So, I said nothing at all and blessed Jory for filling my days, keeping my hands busy and my mind occupied. 

It rained so often in those first weeks, as summer gave way to autumn. I’d never seen so many rainy days strung together. At the first sight of clear skies, Jory forced me out of the castle, saying we couldn’t waste the sunshine. Her energy and eagerness were infectious and I wanted to see more of the island anyway, so she didn’t have to ask me twice. 

Before we left, she summoned Lyra to go with us, calling her away from a corner nook where the other girl sat cross-legged, reading a book in the pale light cast through an arched window. The rain was no longer pelting the glass, but it was hardly dry either.

“You’re going to drown Princess Daenerys before she’s been here a month. Is that your plan, Jory?” Lyra said to her sister, timing her words perfectly, as a growl of thunder rolled in the distance just as she finished speaking. Lyra’s expression remained impassive but her eyes sparked like lightning and her mouth twitched ever-so-slightly on the sound of the storm.

“The storm’s miles away. And it’s just a few showers. She won’t melt,” Jory argued, clucking her tongue at Lyra before casting a glance my way. She asked, “You’re not afraid of a little rain, are you?”

“No, I’ll be fine,” I replied, without a second thought. I didn’t want to get drenched but I needed to be outside today. 

I wanted to breathe in the crisp air of this place, stretch my legs and see my new home. And Jorah was out there somewhere, in the hill country or down by the harbor, and I thought maybe I might catch a glimpse of him at work and with his people. Maybe I’d find a way to say hello. Or just see him, even from a distance, as I was finding that crossing paths with him during the day was enough to send my heart racing in a way that I was beginning to crave…

_Stop it, Daenerys. Stop that now._

I knew that I wasn’t something he’d planned on. And from what I could tell, his life was no better for my presence. Possibly worse. I was another mouth to feed. I was the woman who took up half his bed. He assured me that I was welcome here, but he hadn’t introduced me to anyone outside the Keep. He didn’t appear to want to spend any time with me outside the most basic of appearances, to quell any gossip about our marriage. 

And yet…

The night before, I’d woken up in his arms again and this time, I felt his hand curled around my wrist, his thumb softly caressing the bare skin there in a smooth, sensual manner. It set my skin on fire and my heart jumped at the idea that he might be…

But when I lifted my head from his chest, in gladdened expectation, I found Lord Mormont fast asleep, his weary eyes shut, his breathing pattern too even—he’d been out in the woods since dawn and I knew that he was exhausted, having thrown in with his woodcutters, helping them prepare for the winter months that would soon be upon us. He’d fallen asleep nearly as soon as his head hit the pillow. 

That soft caress came from a place of dreams, far beyond my reach…or his reckoning. 

I wouldn’t be able to wake him, as he was deep in restfulness, far from noticing that I was currently perched on his chest. As he slept, I couldn’t resist the temptation and let my fingers gently whisper across the lines of his face, wondering if he dreamed of his lost wife. 

I didn’t know why that sudden thought should bring me such pain. But it did. 

And it caused my hand to pull back from its wanderings almost immediately, as I decided I might be intruding on something that had nothing to do with me. I swallowed hard, my forlorn features hidden in the darkness of night. And, very gently, I slid away from him, rolling back to my side of the bed, unwilling to take further from a man who owed me nothing. But how cold the sheets felt as I shifted away from him, far from my bear lord’s warm—if unintentional—caress. 

I was struggling to force the memory of that chill away, even hours later, so Jory’s suggestion was a godsend. A walk in unfamiliar country would distract me well.

Lyra was easy enough to convince. She dragged her finger against the edge of the drapes in her nook, pulling them back to observe a mostly cinder-colored sky. She tipped her head on the sparse but widening specks of blue, before shutting her book with a snap, “Yes, I’ll go. I wanted to pick some apples in the west grove anyway.”

“Isn’t it too early for apples?” I wondered, naively, thinking of the court gardens in King’s Landing and how the autumn fruit must still be many months from ripening. The two sisters looked between themselves with shared grins.

“We’re always many weeks ahead of you up here,” Lyra explained. Jory added, “We’ll have snow before long, so if you want apples, now is the time.”

The girls led me on a merry expedition, finding me boots that would serve me well up a mud-splashed path. Jory pushed a wicker basket into my hands and Lyra found me an overcoat, a little heavier than their own, as she must have noticed that I shivered a little too easily, even on these mild summer days.

The path to the west grove was winding and uphill but well-trod. The scent of pine and spruce was everywhere, mixing with the sea. It was familiar to me already, and I tried to understand how that could be…until I remembered that this was Jorah’s scent. 

I looked back towards the Keep and then down towards the rocky beach and docks below, trying to catch sight of him. But we were too far away for me to recognize any of the men and women mulling around below and he was elsewhere, in any case. I couldn’t stop a frown of disappointment from flickering across my lips.

Jory was a bouncing a little further up the path, so she took no notice, but Lyra must have observed the change in my expression, for she walked right beside me. She said nothing. Neither Jorelle nor Lyra was particularly chatty, I’d observed. None of the Mormont girls were. They spoke up only when they needed to, apparently not much for idle conversation. 

I might have expected them to pepper me with questions about King’s Landing or my brothers but they seemed to have little interest in either. Or rather, I knew they were curious. But they seemed to move at a different speed on this Island. There was no rush in gaining knowledge. And I think they discovered more in long silences than if they’d asked me anything outright. 

But I was no northerner and my curiosity, about this place, about the man I’d married, grew stronger with every minute I spent here. I tried to think of an innocent question to ask Lyra but found myself worried that I might say too much or too little, so when I did speak, I’m afraid I just blurted out the first thing that came to mind. 

“When did Jorah’s wife die?” The question I settled on wasn’t innocent at all, and I surprised myself in my boldness. But it was a question that I’d wondered for months, ever since Viserys told me that I was to marry the widower of Bear Island.

If Lyra was offended by my lack of tact, she didn’t show it. If anything, I think my forthright manner might have pleased her. She answered, just as directly, “Ten years, or just about. He didn’t tell you?”

I shook my head, “He hasn’t said a word about her.” 

“It’s hard for him to talk about Mara,” Lyra divulged, her intelligent eyes sparking as she caught sight of the curiosity lingering in mine, perhaps guessing the reason I asked. She offered a little more, “She was so young and he blames himself.”

“Why?”

“She died in childbirth,” Lyra sighed, with an edge of regret in her tone, for the sad fate of a woman who was once her cousin. A woman that I had replaced. 

She didn’t go into further details then. But later she would tell me how Jorah didn’t want to try again after Mara Glover miscarried a second time, as the ordeal left the woman weak and slow to recover. Too slow. But she wanted a child and told him so. Against his better judgment, he gave her that child.

And now they were both buried in graves on the hill. 

“Is that why he didn’t remarry before now?” I continued. 

Lyra nodded plainly, causing my heart to sink a little. Was Jorah still in love with her, even all these years later? And why should it matter to me one way or another?

She might have said more, I think, but Jory called out to us then, “Oh, there’s so many this year!” as she’d reached the heavy-laden trees marking the edge of the apple grove.

Jory had soon gained a foothold on the forked trunk and climbed up into the tangled branches to pass a few riper apples down to me, striped by shades of red and creamy yellow-white. I caught them all and gathered them in that wicker basket, taking a bite of one at the girls’ insistence. 

“They’re the best on the Island,” Jory promised. 

“She would know. She’s tried them all,” Lyra confirmed it, as she leaned against the tree we stood under, taking refuge from another mist of rain. The dampness ghosted our skin and made Jory’s curly hair go a little wilder. 

The Mormont sisters waited for my review, watching me chew the fleshy part of the fruit and swallow. The apple was a little tarter than the southern fare, but crisp and fresh and somehow infused with a slightly wintergreen taste that lingered on my lips pleasantly.

“Aye, it’s good,” I said to them, using the northerner’s favorite word. A wide smile graced my features as I took a second bite, which they both returned, with what seemed like approval.

* * *

That same night, I went looking for Jorah, as he’d missed the evening meal. 

Maege and her daughters didn’t seem disturbed by his absence and Jory told me that he often skipped dinner with the family if island business needed his attention. She said that they’d all been surprised by how often he sat at table these last few weeks, and I realized it must have been for my sake. To give me support, as I settled in to life here. 

Did he think me settled now…? 

As the kitchen maids came in to clear away the empty platters and goblets, I excused myself. While the others were occupied, I impulsively snatched a fresh apple from the basket that we’d gathered earlier and went wandering the halls of Mormont Keep.

He wasn’t hard to find. 

Candlelight flickered from his personal study and out into the hall at late hours. I suspect that he slept at his desk once or twice in his time. I approached quietly and didn’t rap on his door before I entered, as it was already open. His hand scribbled away at an unfinished scroll. He was so intent on the scratch of that pen on parchment that he didn’t hear me come in, not even as I came closer, peeking over his shoulder as he wrote another line in a strong, handsome script. 

_The King’s honor to our House is considerable…_

The way he wrote the “K” on “King’s honor” caught my eye, even though he gilded his “I”s with more flourish than the rest. I wanted to reach out and trace the simple lines of ink. K for King Rhaegar, First of His Name. K for _Khaleesi_ , like the Dothraki queens across the Narrow Sea. 

K for my husband’s kiss, the taste of which I remembered very well, even nearly two months after we stood in the Sept of Baelor. He hadn’t kissed me since. 

“Daenerys?” Jorah started, just a little, his pen-writing hand breaking off the line abruptly, as he finally noticed me hovering. 

He half-turned in his chair to confirm it, with a stolen glance that fell away too soon. He failed to meet my gaze directly. This happened more often with each day. I could count the number of times his blue eyes had met mine in the past week on one hand.

I would have thought that we’d grow _more_ comfortable in each other’s presence as the days wore on, but the opposite seemed to be happening, and I wasn’t sure why. I’d stepped off the boat with his hand held in mine and I slept beside this man every night, and yet, it felt like we were slowly coming undone? Whatever loose string held us together seemed to be unravelling.

I’m not sure how that might be, since we’d never been together in the first place. Not truly. But it dismayed me more than I could say. I didn’t know what I’d done wrong or how I’d displeased him. As he grew distant, I found myself seeking him out more, wondering how to fix what appeared to be broken. That’s why I came looking for him tonight.

“You’ve been spending too much time with Jory,” he huffed, a little wryly, but not unpleasantly. He muttered, “Her quiet footfall has rubbed off on you already.”

“Maybe,” I answered back, with a soft smile that he failed to notice, as he’d turned away from me again. 

“Did you need something, Your Grace?” he asked as he set his pen nib against the parchment again, scratching away to the end of that line, before signing his name at the end, _Lord Jorah Mormont of Bear Island._

“You weren’t at dinner,” I replied, not as an accusation or anything like that. But I wonder that my voice didn’t hold a faint note of dismay, nonetheless, at the formality of the title he just used, at the fact that I’d missed him at dinner.

For my words brought his gaze around to mine. Finally. 

I was standing just at the side of his chair, close enough that he could draw me to him with little trouble, if he had a mind to. For a moment, I thought he might.

The way he looked at me when we were together like this, just the two of us, with such little space between—there was power in it, and I couldn’t decide whether the force of that power scared me or thrilled me. Maybe a little of both? 

“I apologize…,” Jorah’s eyes held mine steady before dropping to the paperwork on his desk and then traveling the short distance to his window. The last strands of sunset were settling on the horizon, reflecting a deep, orange glow along his window panes. He explained, “I’m still catching up. I didn’t realize how late—”

“No, I didn’t mean…,” I stopped him as soon as I understood he was thinking he failed me in this. “Your aunt and your cousins are fine company. I just…wondered where you were. That’s all.”

I shrugged a little, hoping that the rise of my shoulders might cover the nervousness I felt in standing there. My hands sought industry but I didn’t want to clasp them in front of me and fidget. I’d caught myself doing that too many times over the last few weeks and I was trying to break the habit. Besides, I still had that apple clutched in one hand which would make the action cumbersome. But the other hand seemed primed to perch on the back of his chair, in a gesture that would be too familiar.

Although not nearly as familiar as the gesture my mind was currently fixated on. I had the oddest and strongest impulse to reach forward and gently draw one of my hands to his bearded chin, running up his jawline until my fingers combed through his hair and the curls behind his ear absently, in a caress that could not be mistaken for anything but fondness.

No, I wouldn’t dare. Not tonight. 

But only a few years later, I’d do exactly this, in this very room, standing much as I was now, with him sitting at his desk just the same. But Jeorgianna would in my arms and I’d be anything but nervous as I grinned down at my husband and told him news that I knew would make him grin too: _We’re going to have another baby, Jorah._

But I didn’t know that was our path then. I didn’t know that this man was slowly but surely becoming everything to me. I only knew that I liked being in his presence. And that I was sorry he missed dinner.

“Are you settling in?” he wondered, seeing how I lingered. 

“Yes,” I assured him, holding back a word that must have been too obvious. _Mostly_. 

He studied my face, all his thoughts and impressions hidden from me. But then he turned and pulled a small stack of paper from his own stores and handed them over to me, before nodding at an inkwell on a high shelf affixed to the wall just behind us. 

“Perhaps writing your niece would help,” he mentioned, surprising me with the offer. Yes, I'd been thinking of Rhaenys and missing her dreadfully. It wasn't to be helped, as I’d been spending so much time with Jory. I wanted to tell her that I made it to Bear Island safely and of…other things.

“Thank you,” I said. Before I could think better of it, I bent down and kissed his cheek, soundly. I didn’t even think twice. The kiss was so natural, I hadn’t even thought, but…

Jorah’s stunned features matched my own. And whatever impulse had overtaken me in that moment fled near as quickly as it had come, abandoning me to face the moment that followed alone. My mind was whirring rapidly, unsure what I wanted him to do or say in response—I waited, wanting…

Jorah stood up from his chair slowly, and I didn’t move, ensnared by the sight of him towering over me. He reached out his hand and I thought he might run those knuckles across the back of my cheek but…no, his hand moved beyond me, stretching out to retrieve the inkwell from the shelf and bring it down to rest in my free hand.

Now it was I who was avoiding his gaze, too unsure of what I would find there. Too unused to any of this to know what I _wanted_ to find. I stared at the ink, mumbling another “thanks” as I took it from his hand, while vainly trying not to be consumed by the feel of his fingers brushing mine.

Or the way that simple touch seemed to set me on fire. Just like that caress in the night that he wouldn’t remember. 

“Well, goodnight, my lord,” I recovered as well as I could, giving a clumsy half-curtsy and turning to leave. 

At the threshold I stopped abruptly, grimacing with my back turned from him, but making sure to plaster a false smile as I returned. Without casting a single glance his way—as I didn’t want to blush in my blundering and I knew one more look would do it—I set that red-and-cream apple down on his desktop, before leaving the room with enough speed that I might have scattered his papers to the four winds in my wake.


	17. Alysane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys could melt polar ice caps with her sunshine smile. It is known <3

**_Alysane_ **

I’ve never had a gift for timing. Call it the curse of the second child, or just my own failure to plan things out in a way that favors me. I have none of Lyra’s gift for foresight, nor Dacey’s good luck. I’m wary when there’s no reason. I trust when I might better be wary.

And all my sisters agree that I take after Mother more than any of us. In temperament, at the very least. 

So I suppose it shouldn’t be any surprise that I found myself quickening my pace as I left the Keep this morning, my fist twisting in fabric as I lifted the hem of my skirt just a hair so I might better dash out the nearest door, through the scullery. I bolted past the kitchen, with nary a word to the cook, already preparing for the noonday meal, and the chambermaids, hands deep in soapy water, washing dishes from breakfast. The cacophony of silverware, wooden bowls and tin plates covered my rushed footsteps, so I doubt they saw me pass.

Even if they did, they would have left me alone, thinking I was in a dark mood. I was grimacing, I’m sure. Not that they weren’t used to that. I wear my glowers like the best of the Mormonts, seeing no reason to force a smile when there’s little call for one. 

But this time, my grimace wasn’t to be helped, even if I’d had a mind to soften it. I was focusing too much on getting out that door, reaching fresh air and the sweet solitude of summer gardens, already harvested and picked clean of their produce. The door beckoned. Reaching it in a rush, I used both palms to push it open…

To green grass and blue skies, where I immediately fell to my knees in the hedges, and threw up my breakfast. 

I held my hair to one side as I spit out the last of it, grimacing again as I sat back on my knees, while forcing myself not to groan more than a little. There was no one out in the garden, as I’d hoped, but I didn’t want to call anyone who might be working nearby. This little illness I’d been dealing with came and went very quickly. I needed no assistance. 

But the way it lingered and kept coming back was leading me to believe it wasn’t an illness at all.

Not to mention it had been two months… 

Two months since I met him last, stealing away for a few days along the northern shore, thinking summer was nearing its end and I might not see him again for a while. Thinking I was being clever with my timing, as Jorah was away at King’s Landing and Mother was too occupied with island business to notice my extended absence. 

Two months since my last moon’s blood. And now it was two weeks since I started wondering if maybe I hadn’t played myself for a reckless fool. 

Of course, it was bound to happen sooner or later. I’m my Mother’s daughter, there’s no denying that. And as cold as we can be, the Mormont women know how to keep our heart’s fire burning. For better or worse, mine always flames best whenever my wild man’s hands are running over my naked breasts and my fingers are combing through his curly mess of red, red hair. 

When the babe is born, I’m sure they’ll all wonder about the red hair. Unless the child takes after me? The blood of bears is so strong, it’s possible. And there’s red hair in our family tree too. Look at Jorah’s ginger locks. Even my own hair has a few red strands mixed in with all that chocolate brown. But it’s nothing like _his_. Kissed by fire, kissed by me. 

I’ll have to make up some story. Mother won’t be fooled, but she’ll not be able to say anything either. 

Maege Mormont is good and strong and steady and the best mother my sisters and I could ever have asked for. But she has no moral high ground when it comes to choosing what kind of man should father our children. Oh, we were quite a pair, mother and daughter. At least neither of us had lain with bloody krakens, I suppose. Even if that was an easy thing. I’ve never met a Greyjoy who wasn’t an ugly fucker that even a mother might be tempted to throw back into the sea.

And maybe I was wrong. Maybe I wasn’t pregnant at all. Maybe this was just a late summer sickness that _was_ wreaking havoc with me on a daily basis. 

_Aye. And maybe the stars are made of cheese._ I thought, as I took a couple deep, steadying breaths before rising from beneath those green hedges. My steps were a little weary as I plodded to the garden well. I pulled up the bucket from the deep below, dipping a gourd into chilly water so I could rinse out my mouth, before splashing some of that water on my flushed face as well.

As I sat down on the well stones, I pressed both hands to my eyes in a moment of weakness. I shouldn’t have done that, but I was a mess of emotions.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want children. I did. And I was certainly old enough. By the time Mother was my age, she’d already had both Dacey and I. And I was ready to be a mother. Last night, I dreamed of this baby and I found myself waking up with a smile gracing stern features that knew little of smiles, thinking about holding this cub in my arms for the first time. 

The strange but wonderful thought made me feel warm all over…

But then suddenly, I was _too_ warm, flushed by a tidal wave of nausea and dizziness. I threw back my covers in a rush, groaning, barely making it to my chamber pot in time.

“You’re already a handful, you know that?” I muttered under my breath, scolding my unborn child, as I took another sip of water. And at my words, _his_ smirking face drifted into my head, as natural with grinning as I was with glowering. If he was here—if I saw that smirk in the flesh, oh, I’d want to kiss him and smack him at the same time. 

It would be a while before I saw him again. This child would likely be born before he was back on these shores. And even then, he wouldn’t stay for long. He never did. I’d smack him and kiss him and make him hold his child, at the very least. 

Still, I knew Mother would be a little disappointed when she found out. Not that I hadn’t married some soft southern lord and would spend the next seven months at my needlework and awaiting confinement, to grant his family name to a son that he would rejoice in or a daughter he’d sigh patiently over. No, that would disappoint her far more. But I know that she didn’t want any of us—and me, in particular, I think—to repeat her own mistakes.

“What mistakes?” I’d asked her when she said this to us several years ago, after telling us that Lyanna was on the way.

“The kind where your children grow up without knowing their father,” Mother had mused in a rich tone, with something like mild regret to be found in her words. Not too much, of course. But she always went just a little soft when she was carrying a child, betraying hairline fractures in the confidence of judgment she usually wielded like a greatsword. 

Jory was sitting cross-legged at Mother’s feet, separating out blackberries from raspberries on a blue square of cloth. Lyra was perched nearby, on the seat beneath her favorite window, with her knees brought up to her chest. Dacey and I were standing, both exchanging a glance at Mother’s rueful, and uncommonly melancholy, musings. 

“If you think we don’t know who he is, you’re fooling yourself,” Dacey told her, very plainly. 

I shot my eldest sister a severe look at this, as I didn’t think we were going to tell our mother that we knew. I thought we all agreed? From her spring-misted window, Lyra stared at Dacey and then at Mother, observing them both, gauging their reactions, while successfully keeping her own feelings on the matter secret, as always.

Mother didn’t seem surprised by Dacey’s words—perhaps there was even some pride that we’d figured it out on our own. She sighed and reached a wandering hand down to play her fingers across Jory’s curls in an affectionate manner. Yet, her reply was as cold and blunt as ever, “He’ll never be able to claim you as his own and you’ll never be able to admit he’s your father. And that’s my doing.”

She needn’t have said it. We never regretted our father’s absence. We were fine as we were. 

But would my child be the same? Or would they resent me for choosing a father cut from the same cloth, just as Mother always feared? Just because my sisters and I felt one way, I suppose I couldn’t count on my own child to do the same. 

I…

Maybe I should have tried for Lord Manderly after Dacey turned him down, embracing a life of pin cushions and children who were given their father’s name. Instead of a smirking red-head who was hundreds of miles away, likely not sparing more than a moment’s thought on me. Unshackled and unchained. Free as the bears to roam and love and live as we pleased—that’s what drew us together in the first place.

I grimaced again. This time, at the scented memory of Lord Manderly’s strong perfume. I resisted the urge to retch into the bushes a second time.

But here was another mistake in timing. Because the gods apparently hated me that morning. For the look on my face must have given me away so easily. Or maybe it was the way I sat at the side of that well, fingers gripping the stone, shoulders a little slumped, expression more than a little haggard and weary.

Either way, I had a witness to my misery—and a mainlander, at that.

The princess must have risen early and gone for a walk in the woods. She was alone, as Jory and Mother had left at dawn, travelling down to the far harbor to visit an old woman who used to work in our house when Uncle Jeor was still lord of this place. She had a cough that she couldn’t shake and likely wouldn’t last until winter, so said her son. Lyra was training Lyanna in the courtyard. Dacey was down at the docks, haggling with traders from Deepwood Motte. And Jorah was at any number of his daily responsibilities, as he seemed so intent on working himself to the bone lately. 

Daenerys came down the path with her pretty eyes scanning the landscape, taking in the sounds of songbirds and the sight of our hardwood trees beginning to change into garbs of scarlet, sunflower and coral orange, even as the spruce and pine remained comfortable in their dark greens. 

Her eyes were bright and her mouth was soft, as if pleased with what she saw. Autumn had barely started. If she liked those colors now, she’d like them even better in a month or so. She breathed in the sea air deeply, with a healthy spring in her step, coming upon our house, surrounded by forest and glen.

Her silver-blonde hair was in twin braids today. I wondered if Lyra had arranged it for her? If Jorelle had been with her, she would have made a crown of flowers for the princess’s head, no doubt. And then Daenerys Stormborn would have looked every inch a fairytale creature of Bear Island.

One that might even belong here, among us. Even if I still had my doubts.

Our gazes locked across the garden at the very moment she crossed the threshold of the near gate. Which was the exact moment that I was certain I was going to be sick again. 

She should have no suspicion of what I was doing out there or the thoughts currently racing through my head. And yet, I could see the dawning realization in her face. 

I have no idea how she knew. Maybe she’d seen this look on my face too many times in a row over the past week, or maybe she just plain guessed. But she knew. And the way her features softened and the way she approached me, in that timid way that said she knew she was an outsider here should have softened me to her. But I’m possibly the most stubborn of us all and my suspicious and careful nature always ran too deep.

 _Ha!_ A voice in my head laughed at me freely. Considering the state I was in, the idea that I was careful in anything was…a lark.

“Are you all right, Alysane?” the princess asked, in a gentle tone. She seemed concerned, but I couldn’t tell if she was being sincere or not, having known her for less than a month. And I’m afraid I’ve never warmed to a gentle word, always thinking it might expose my own weakness.

“Of course,” I snapped at her, adopting a huff of laughter that sounded terribly hollow, even to my own ears. I straightened my posture and swallowed back the dizzying feeling of being on a boat deck in stormy weather with sheer stubbornness. I managed, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I just thought—” Her eyes drifted from my face. She didn’t have to say it. I could read her thoughts well enough.

“I know what you thought,” I didn’t let her finish. I shied away from pity and sympathy, and I wanted to make this clear to Daenerys. Besides, I had no shame in my condition. I just didn’t want Mother and the others to know about it yet. I needed time to think and become accustomed to the idea that I was to be a mother. There was no harm in that, surely.

But my emotions were too tangled that morning, and I took it out on Daenerys, eyeing her flat stomach and saying, with bite, “Pray to your gods that you’re in the same state, my lady, if you wish to please your husband.”

I don’t know why I said that. I suppose I thought to embarrass her. She wasn’t yet twenty and newly married, for the first time. 

She blushed at my words. She blushed far too easily and I realized in that moment that there was absolutely no chance of my words coming true. At least not anytime soon.

She and Jorah weren’t…?

_Oh._

Then why did he marry her? Mother said he’d gone to King’s Landing to refuse. He was going to Castle Black, she was sure of it. When he returned with Daenerys Targaryen in tow, we just assumed that he’d changed his mind because he liked this girl. The way he looked at her screamed how well he liked her. He might as well shout it from the cliffs. And she liked him back. Anyone with eyes could see that. 

I sat facing them both at dinner many nights. They had a way of looking at each other that was incredibly nauseating. To me, anyway—although, it was becoming clear that I found most things nauseating at present. 

Well, it was none of my business anyway. But by the ghostly pale that fell across Daenerys’s face after that blush passed, I understood that this was not something I was meant to know. She swallowed hard, disappointed in herself for revealing too much.

I’d been so resistant to the princess’s coming and I certainly had done nothing to make her feel welcome but, in that moment, I found my grimace melting away like butter over warm bread. We were both silent for a long time, unsure of what to say. 

But, in her blunder, I found solace in my own. 

“I’ll keep your secret, if you keep mine,” I said after that pause, my voice losing its prior chilliness. I wasn’t all that worried about her knowing mine, as it wasn’t something that I’d be able to hide for long. And I _would_ tell them. Soon. I just needed a little more time. That’s all.

But hers…it wasn’t my secret to tell. 

I suddenly wanted her to know that I wouldn’t. That she could trust me. And, in that, Daenerys and I took our first, small step towards a friendship that would end up lasting a lifetime. My children would love her almost as well as me. I would love her children just as dearly. 

Impulsively, I reached out my hand, that we might seal the promise. She seemed relieved, her own features breaking into a glorious smile that I couldn’t help but answer.

“Gladly,” she said, as she took my hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Book-wise, I'm not completely unconvinced by the Maege/Tormund theory that floats around. Father of Bears and all that. But show-wise, it just doesn't work because Kristofer Hivju is too young. And I prefer the idea of Tormund/Alysane anyway. So yeah, expect her firstborn to have Tormund's wild red hair ;)


	18. Jorah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a little fluff for Valentine's Day (with a lot more fluff...and other stuff to follow in the next couple chapters). And oh look, another salzrand creation that I've fallen head-over-heels (madly, truly, deeply) in love with *insert all the heart eye emojis that ever existed here* <3 <3 <3 
> 
> Now bring on the champagne and chocolate. Mwah! <3

**_Jorah_ **

“Again,” Lyanna grumbled darkly, as she pushed herself off the ground with a dour scowl. 

She retrieved her short sword from the courtyard stones, and then brushed at the pebbles and dirt that clung to her light armor, her leather breastplate and bracers so small they might have been fashioned for a doll.

But my little cousin was no doll, even if she looked like one. 

Her long brown hair was tied away from her face, falling in a single braid down the center of her back. As she brushed at her clothes and found her stance again, the braid fell over her shoulder. She sighed at the misbehaving strands, flinging the braid back and out of the way with another frown. But she was soon focused on her sword grip and, as ever, on her opponent.

Her eyes met mine, trying to anticipate my next move. 

I did my best not to show amusement, as this was no joking matter to my severe, if diminutive, cousin. Her sword was at the ready and she rested her other hand at the small of her back for balance, her technique and style incredibly poised for a six-year-old.

All those lessons with her sisters were paying off. She could have no better teachers, as Maege’s daughters were all accomplished fighters in their own right. Lyanna would join their ranks in no time, but she was eager and impatient with her youth, wanting to skip to the part where she’d have the strength to match her natural skill. 

But only a passage of years could accomplish that, much to her displeasure. She shouldn’t fret so much about it. The years would pass, whether she welcomed their coming or not.

_Keep your shield up, Jorah._ My father’s gruff voice rang in my ears even now, as the courtyard kept its older memories well. _And don’t stop moving. If you stop moving, you’ll not have time to start again._

Lyanna had her mother’s temperament, but pint-sized and expressed in a little girl’s voice. She wanted to get on with it. She lifted her chin brusquely, challenging me to approach. She warned, with a cub’s growl, “Don’t go easy on me, either.”

“Never,” I promised the tiny fighter. 

Bear Island was no place for molly-coddling. We’d had Greyjoys raiding and plundering the southern fishing villages for as long as I’d been alive, as long as Father, and his father before him. We’d throw them back into the sea a thousand times but those damn Ironborn never stopped, sailing off from Pyke all through spring and summer. Only the cold weather and icy waters drove them back to their own shores.

And the wildlings were always a threat along the northern coast, even if we hadn’t seen them cross the Bay in almost three decades. Wildlings hadn’t breached our shore since I was a boy, when my mother was still alive. No one knew why their assaults stopped so abruptly, nor when they might turn our way again. So we must always be ready.

Lyanna seemed to take this lesson to heart, searing it on her very soul. She was very like her sisters, but her brand of fierceness was all her own. I could envision her leading our house at the age of six. And what a formidable mistress of Bear Island she’d make. She held her own, even against a sparring partner two or three times her size. Our master-of-arms said he’d not tangle with her, for fear he might be disarmed by a little girl.

She begged to train with me, at least once a week, just the two of us. I think she saw me as a challenge she wasn’t ready for and that was the only sort of challenge that interested Lyanna. But, despite her many talents and her strong will, she was still six years old and I could see her frustration build each time I knocked that sword out of her hand.

“It has nothing to do with skill, Lyanna,” I reminded her, as I took a step forward and took a gentle swat at her with the wooden practice sword I’d pulled from the barrel at the side of the courtyard. Her form was perfect and she would have parried easily, had she the weight behind her to manage it. But the force of my blow, half-hearted though it was, drove her back, as always. I told her plainly, “Size is not on your side.”

“Size isn’t everything,” she muttered, ducking from an overhead strike. She was nimble and fast and I’d rather teach her to be more defensive. But she had a spirit that would charge forward and take on a giant without second thought. 

Another strike, another parry. She threw herself into the fight as if her life depended on it, never one to do anything in half-measures.

I’d told her that there would be plenty of time for training. She was not yet seven years old, after all. But I’m afraid my words fell on deaf ears. And I might have suggested that she not try sparring with me until she had another two feet of height, at the very least, but that would only gain me a disapproving glower, and maybe a commiserating glance from Maester Morlan, as he knew how it felt to be on the bad side of the littlest Mormont better than the rest of us.

Besides, I enjoyed watching her form, so focused, so set on her goals. It was like fighting a determined little pixie. She took advice well, for a child so young, and never allowed praise for her minor victories, cutting her sisters and I short from giving her any sort of credit with a simple, “Again.” 

Years later, she’d be sitting up on the ramparts, legs dangling while peeling an orange and chuckling—how rare a sound that was—as she watched me set upon by three cubs all at once, shouting to my children a trick she learned long ago, “Go for his knees!”

“Ah!” I exclaimed, when her little sword made a glancing contact at exactly that spot. My cry was made more in surprise that her little blade had the reach, rather than any actual pain at the hit. 

She’d murder me to hear it, but Lyanna’s sword arm had all the bite of a butterfly.

The glancing blow went wide without good contact and, with a minor twist of my wrist, I turned the wooden sword on its edge just beneath her own blade, lifting it up and catching her off balance, as she overcorrected. She would have fallen to the ground for a third time but I shot forward and caught the little girl before her stumble laid her flat on her back. 

We were tough on the young ones, but Lyanna had enough bruises for one day. She wanted more, I’m sure, and would wear them as black-and-blue badges of honor, but I’m afraid I had no will to give them to her. 

“You’re not supposed to catch me, Jorah,” Lyanna complained, wrenching her little arm away as soon as she regained her balance, likely angry with me. But not forever. No, not even for more than a minute. Lyanna never stayed mad at me for long. 

I told her, with no false pride, “You’re getting better.” 

She didn’t smile. Lyanna never smiled. But her brown eyes snapped on the plain-spoken compliment, beaming inwardly. She knew I wouldn’t say it unless it was true, and that made her very happy indeed. I tugged on her braid gently, with old affection, before pushing her back to her starting position again, crouching just slightly, ready for her next charge.

But then…

My little cousin’s perpetual frown returned swiftly and her posture went too indignant, even for Lyanna. Her sword arm relaxed and she straightened up, that severe expression deeply set. Her brown eyes were as fixed as before. But this time, not on me. She was looking at something at the edge of the courtyard.

Or some _one_ , as it turned out.

My eyes picked up the color of silver-blonde hair and violet eyes immediately, before I’d even turned all the way round, so striking against the grey stone, brown pine and green, crawling ivy that surrounded her. Daenerys was watching us from the courtyard stair, having settled on a lower step while we were sparring. 

It took only an instant for her gaze to flicker to mine and, without hesitation, she gave me a slight, open smile upon being noticed. This was her usual greeting. No words. Just a warm look as soon as her eyes met mine, holding them fast with no effort at all. 

If Lyanna wanted to knock me down, she might find out how to harness the power of Daenerys’s pretty smile for her own use. I swear that smile stole my breath away every single time, especially when I wasn’t expecting it. I thought with time, I might be less affected. But, if anything, the power of her sweet smiles was growing stronger. 

I was drawn in by her gaze, finding myself returning the smile, wondering how long she’d been sitting there, wondering how her day was going, wondering if she…

“It isn’t polite to spy, you know,” Lyanna’s voice broke my spiraling thoughts. She mentioned this to the princess in an off-hand manner, with one hand resting on her hip. Her stance had changed again, to defiance and pride. I cringed at this, hoping that Daenerys would take no offense. 

Lyanna was…well, Lyanna. I don’t think it took anyone more than a day on Bear Island to understand what that meant.

And I honestly don’t think Lyanna held any true objections to Daenerys. It was more that the princess had acted as a witness to her defeat and shame, in being caught by me. She would have said the same to her sisters, still lacking any sort of tact that might keep the words as a mutter under her breath. 

My smile faltered at her words. I chided her as a father might, with a patient but reprimanding, “Your tone isn’t polite at all, Lyanna.”

My little cousin broke her stare with my wife at these words, looking up at me instead. In that moment, I saw something in those dark brown eyes that I’d seen many times before, but rarely turned on me. _Utter_ disappointment. 

She and the Blackfish would get along swimmingly, as this was one of his favorite expressions as well. 

But Lyanna seemed to restrain herself from sniping whatever harsh words jumped first to her lips, perhaps knowing more of tact that I expected, perhaps believing this was a momentary lapse in judgment on my part and deciding she would forgive me, if only this once.

After a moment, her mouth flickered over a terse, manufactured smile that she offered to Daenerys.

“It isn’t polite to spy, Your _Grace_ ,” Lyanna amended pointedly, in a tone that even the deaf might hear. Maege’s youngest had cheek, sweet gods above. 

My troubled gaze darted to Daenerys. But she was waiting for me again, a smile still hinting at her lips. She seemed more amused than anything else, which gave me some relief. She let the insult pass without saying anything at all, and another shared look told me not to worry over Lyanna’s impertinence. At least not for her sake.

But I’d have a discussion with Maege about it later, in any case. Daenerys was my _wife_. And, child though she was, Lyanna needed to respect that.

“I think that’s enough for one day, don’t you?” For the present, I decided to diffuse the lingering tension another way, resting a pacifying hand on Lyanna. My large hand swallowed up her entire shoulder, which did little to dispel the feeling that I was patronizing her. But it wasn’t to be helped and she allowed it, as she would never allow with anyone else. 

She craned her neck up, gauging my careful tone. 

Lyanna didn’t like to disappoint me and it was in my softer tones that she realized she might have crossed a line. Her cheery defiance deflated somewhat and she gave a grave, grown-up nod in reply, saving face. Still, she betrayed her age in her next breath, giving a hopeful, “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” I promised her, giving that shoulder a little squeeze before taking her sword and sending her on her way back to her mother. She didn’t apologize to Daenerys, but she nodded her head in a brief farewell, which was nearly the same thing.

I took my time setting the swords aside before finally wandering over to Daenerys. She waited, with that warm, open smile returning as soon as she saw my steps headed in her direction. My heart hammered away loud enough that I was sure she must be able to hear it, even yards away. In defiance of my own feelings, I forced myself to composure, approaching her with what I hoped would be nonchalance.

_Yes, nonchalance. That’s what they call daydreams of kissing her under blue skies, making love to her at midnight…_

If she could see through me, she was good enough to say nothing about it. 

“You’re very good with her,” Daenerys said at once, after I’d made it to her stair perch, my hands coming to rest on the pine railing just beside her. She smirked at the scene she’d just witnessed, her eyes flickering over the courtyard, now quiet except for a few fallen leaves scattering in the light breeze, before returning to me, “I pity whoever comes up against her in combat.”

I grinned back, agreeing, “She’s a fierce one. And what she lacks in size, she makes up for in strength of will.”

“I can sympathize,” Daenerys murmured, with bright eyes, no doubt thinking back on King’s Landing. 

I could easily picture her in her brother’s grand throne room, the young princess, surrounded on all sides by men and women who towered over her. She was small, even for a Targaryen. Only the crannogmen down in the Neck might meet her at eye level. 

She admitted, “It’s not always easy being the smallest in the room. They never take you seriously.” 

“I would think they always take a princess seriously, don’t they?”

“You’d be surprised,” she mentioned, with that pretty smile springing to life again. A smile that almost seemed to say she was happy to be done with that part of her life. But I wouldn’t dare to read into her expression my own hopes. 

Still, I had the oddest impulse that _I_ should have been by her side down there, to protect her, to keep her safe, to remind anyone who might dismiss her so easily to think twice. I had enough height and stature for both of us.

I told her, “King’s Landing must be full of fools then.”

Her hands had been resting in her lap, but at this, one of them wandered up to join mine, her forefinger gently tracing a delicate path over my knuckles before coming to rest on the rail, with a whisper of space remaining between our hands.

I liked this easy manner between us, reminiscent of our wedding night and the journey north. I’d been wondering where it had run away to. It was my own fault, of course. I was the one who kept running away from these moments, avoiding them for fear of overstepping or saying something that might cause her distress or embarrassment.

_You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, Daenerys…_

Aye, that might cause her more embarrassment than I was likely to risk, even if it was the thought that kept echoing through my head at all hours of the day…and the night.

I swallowed back those words, mind racing to come up with something that wouldn’t force the poor girl to make a hasty exit.

“I thought Jory was taking you up to Josiah Mormont’s cabin this morning?” I asked her, having picked up snatches of a conversation between the two of them at breakfast. My great-great grandfather’s old cabin had been abandoned for years, save for his descendants’ curiosity. It was a hermit’s cottage, far beneath a princess’s notice, but it was up in the hill country and had one of the best views on the entire island. 

Daenerys nodded, but with a slump to her shoulders, betraying dashed hopes.

“She was,” she replied, with a quiet sigh. She continued, “But Maege has her on some errand or other, and I didn’t want to go alone.”

“I can take you now, if you’d like?” I offered, so impulsively. 

It was an instant reaction, a compulsion to chase away the gloomy disappointment that I saw shadowing her violet eyes. I didn’t even think before I…

But before I could retract those words, or even truly regret them, she was giving me that same soft look, her fingers crossing the divide once more, gingerly coming to rest on my own, “Would you?” she asked, confessing, “I would like that very much.”

I found I couldn’t hold her ardent gaze any longer, dropping mine to my boots. 

But I didn’t pull my hand from hers and the smile on my lips lingered, as I couldn’t say I wasn’t pleased by the tone in her voice. 

I stumbled just a little on my reply, as she had the awful habit of making me tongue-tied in those early days, but I managed, “You’ll want to fetch a warmer cloak before we go. It’s always chillier up in the hills.”


	19. Daenerys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #LobsterHikingDate <3

Josiah Mormont’s old cabin was built on the sloping mountainside, up beyond the green meadows that curved down from Bear Island’s highest peaks, nestled at the edge of a thick grove of pine and spruce, with wildflowers growing around its porch steps and a winding, freshwater creek that flowed beside it.

Jorah told me that in winter, the cabin would be near buried in heavy snow drifts, and in spring, that little creek would become a raging, tumbling stream, swollen with snow melt. But in autumn, it was picturesque. A woodland cottage—a home that seemed fashioned for fairies, nymphs and dryads. 

The cabin was hewn from the same woods that surrounded it on all sides. The logs that lined its sturdy walls were brothers and sisters to the evergreen and hardwoods that grew here. The flat stones that formed its square chimney were cousins to those in the creek bed and found along the cliff side. 

Had I been walking up here in the woods by myself, I might not have noticed the cabin at all. It blended into the background too well, only giving itself away by a blinking reflection of sunlight on the glass windows that framed the front door. Josiah Mormont must have dragged that glass up here, for the sake of some natural light in his snug hideaway.

He hadn’t been so much of a bear that he’d be happy with a dark cave. Not up here, where the sunsets were afire with the colors of marmalade and rose-gold and the sunrises were chilled violet behind an eastern peak, casting shadows that turned the flowers to dark greens and deep indigo. 

Leaving the horses below, we climbed for hours and made it to the cabin around midday, when the sky was bright and blue and sharp, with a few wisps of storm clouds in the north that I paid little attention to, caught up in time spent in Jorah’s company, and the soft (affectionate?) look in his blue eyes when he said he’d bring me up here.

I felt light and a little giddy, thinking that maybe things might be on the precipice of changing between us. Thinking that maybe Jorah’s heart had softened towards me. 

I hoped so. Mine had certainly softened towards him. And the passage of time only softened it more, in a way that I should scold myself over. As there was no good to come of falling in love with someone who might not be willing to love me back.

But hope springs eternal. 

When I walked out into the courtyard that morning and saw him sparring with Lyanna—the way he was with her, patient and ever-encouraging, affectionate and willing to give of his time and himself, for a little girl who he might have easily told to shove off elsewhere.

 _Go away, Dany. I’m busy._

At Dragonstone, Viserys had shut his door in my face so many times that I still wince sometimes when I’m entering a room uninvited, my fist hesitating to knock. My brother, Rhaegar, was little better. The day Viserys told me I was to marry a northern lord—not yet giving me the name of my groom—I beseeched my eldest brother to give me an audience, thinking I might explain why Viserys was so eager to have this done with and plead my case…or beg him to reconsider, should it come to that.

Rhaegar didn’t bother to answer my request, sending his reply through Arthur Dayne, who let me know that the king was fully occupied and that the matter was settled already. After he bowed and took his leave, I witnessed the Lord Commander of my brother’s Kingsguard seek out his sister, Lady Ashara, stopping at the end of the hall, speaking in low voices, while casting tense glances back in my direction.

Rhaegar didn’t know Jorah. I hazard to guess that he didn’t know my husband’s name until one of his advisors offered it to him. My brothers and Jorah Mormont were so far apart, in both temperament and deed, that I could hardly think of them in the same breath, except to mark the stark difference. 

_He’ll make a wonderful father._ I couldn’t help my thoughts from drifting this way, as I watched Jorah with his youngest cousin. Nor the sudden flood of warmth that seemed to fill me up at the very notion. 

And later, when he wandered over to me and agreed to take me up to his great grandfather’s cabin, just the two of us. He seemed to jump at the chance, which was unlike him. And I felt something like hope kindled within me, in a way that I scarcely understood.

All the way up to the cabin, I tried to keep these feelings hidden away, knowing that I was being foolish. It was _only_ a look. And one that didn’t last very long. He hadn’t said anything to me outright, offering no more than two words as we went down to the stables. And later, on our walk into the woods and up along the mountain path, he made certain not to cross the invisible barrier between us. 

It was a small thing, but noticeable. He hadn’t touched me or taken my hand except to help me off the white mare at the base of the trail, and then again, when we came upon a particularly steep incline. Even then, he released me as soon as my foot found the level path again. 

When he let go, I had to stop my right hand from drifting to the left, to touch the spot he’d so recently abandoned, as if he’d left a part of himself imprinted on my palm. 

My mind hummed with nonsense like this.

I was glad for the natural beauty of the Island, those sloping hills and dense woods, the alpine meadows and that old cabin, which endeared itself to me as soon as we reached it. Jorah stood just inside the door, hanging back, waiting while I meandered through its two small rooms, eyes wandering over little curiosities. 

Jorah told me that his great grandfather had a hermit’s personality and needed a place to escape to, when the concerns of Bear Island were too much, or, more often, when visitors from the mainland were scheduled to arrive.

“Lord William Stark once waited two weeks on Josiah Mormont. They all thought he was dead, torn apart by bears or head cracked open from a fall on the mountain trail, but no…,” Jorah mused, eyes drifting over the rafters and thatched roof. “He was just hiding away up here, hoping his honored company would leave before he came down from the mountain.”

I smirked at that, hearing a little longing in Jorah’s voice, thinking I could easily see him doing the same thing. He liked to retreat into his study often enough. And there was something to be said for being able to run away from the banality of court manners, even for just a little while.

I knew why Josiah Mormont liked this place. And why his great grandchildren continued to keep the old cabin in repair, lest the forest take it back. It nearly had anyway, at least on the exterior, the old logs covered in as much moss, ivy and morning glories as the trees around it. 

But inside, there were signs that someone had been here recently. A swept floor, a down pillow and folded quilt on the small bed, kindling in the carriage beside the hearth, firewood piled out on the porch, a bouquet of daisies, phlox and buttercups on the table, not yet wilted. Jorah told me the girls would hunt up here sometimes and stay the night if evening fell too quickly.

My eyes drifted over pine logs and oak floors, white and grey hearth stones, and that table by the window, with a single chair pushed out beside it, turned towards a view of the woods and babbling creek outside. The cabin’s only bed was pushed against the far wall, near the fireplace and away from any howling northern winds that might assault the tiny cabin, looking snug and comfy enough that I was tempted to crawl in, as the walk up from the Keep had been long and exhausting. 

That bed was made for one person and, for my own amusement, I briefly wondered how Jorah might react if this was the size of our bed at home. I suppressed the grin that teased my lips on that mischievous thought, turning away from my observations of the bed quickly, before he might guess my thoughts. 

There were fishing hooks and arrowheads scattered on the table and a pair of old snowshoes hanging on the wall. Ashy cinders filled the cold fireplace and a couple sprigs of lavender were strung up by the windows, hanging upside down from the rafters, drying. 

“That’s Jory’s doing. You’ll find she leaves flowers everywhere around the Island,” Jorah confirmed, when I looked to him, inquiring with my eyes alone.

The cabin had an otherworldly feel to it. Like a secret shared, held in trust and passed down from one generation of Mormonts to the next. My family had nothing like this. We had a jealous birthright, a thorny crown and an uncomfortable iron chair. 

I thought of Dragonstone and how that massive fortress was built in defiance of a windy island that bristled against the imposition and dishonor of a castle built for conquest and carnage, howling at the thick walls from morning until night, the tumultuous sea battering the cliffs with a spray that might reach the ramparts in stormy weather. 

As if both the sea and the sky wished us to go back to Valyria and stay there.

There was nothing of _home_ in Dragonstone. Not like here. This old cabin, the Keep below, the harbor villages—it all felt like an extension of the Island, in concert with its native plants and animals, a true home of bears.

Was it home for me too? I worried I overstepped in even thinking that way. I was born a dragon, a Targaryen. We didn’t plant trees, we didn’t pick wildflowers, we didn’t build cabins. 

But I was a Mormont now too. Thanks to Jorah. Did that make a difference?

While I pondered this silently, Jorah had stepped away from the doorway to stand very near me. I remained where I was, watching him curiously. His hand dropped to the table to sift through Jory’s flowers, finding a daisy among them. Silently, he picked up the delicate bloom with care, and I found myself staying very still as I realized what he intended…

Compelled by a passing fancy, Jorah threaded that daisy into my hair. He smoothed the stem back behind my ear, tucking a strand of hair that had come loose from the braids with it. That same soft look again—the one he’d turned on me down in the courtyard was gracing his rugged features, as he regarded his handiwork with satisfaction. 

I said nothing, just watching his expression, having no knowledge of myself in that moment, of where I was, of what would happen next.

I held my breath…

But then he moved away again, too soon, wandering towards the window. The cabin boards creaked under his heavy footsteps. 

The silence stretched a little, as I had no more questions to ask, save one. 

_Why do you keep turning away from me, Ser?_

The cabin was too small for such silence. The air became tense and taut, as if it might snap…before Jorah saved us from it, by asking, “Would you like to see a sea dragon, Daenerys?”

* * *

It wasn’t a sea dragon. 

It was _the_ Sea Dragon. Sea Dragon Point. A jutting peninsula off the western Wolfswood, a thick swath of green forest and marshland that stuck out into the Bay of Ice down on the most northwesterly part of the mainland. 

Jorah led me beyond the old cabin, further up a narrow, rocky path, until we crested the tree line and were suddenly walking on barren, lichen-kissed stone. No, not quite barren. I spotted lime and mint moss, pine needles and alpine flowers growing in the warm pockets of dark earth that found hold in the cracks of ancient, jagged rock. 

Tiny starflowers with white and violet petals shivered low to the ground, staying below the reach of gusty sea winds, which were far heavier here than in the woods, chilly enough that I might have regretted leaving my cloak in the cabin down below, if the short climb up hadn’t left me flushed and seeking out that cold breeze with relief.

“Is that the mainland?” I asked, trying to tame the many strands that escaped my braids in the constant gusts.

The vista up here was stunning, and I reveled in the sheer height of the high peak, wandering to its edge, where the drop off plunged down a thousand feet at least. Bear Island was carved up in wildness, beautiful but dangerous too. It made my heart flip over itself to stand here like this, on a ledge that seemed to me to be the top of the known world. 

It wasn’t a fear of falling that made my heart beat so wildly. It was the whimsy of knowing how it might feel to fly. 

“That’s Deepwood Motte,” Jorah pointed to a jutting speck of land directly south of us. He joined me on the ledge, so he might better direct my eye line. His large form blocked some of the wind which I was grateful for, as the longer we stood there, the colder I realized that breeze was. There were slivers of ice in it, a lacy frost, and the midday sunlight kept turning pale, as the wispy clouds from the north drifted down from their northern reaches in greater numbers.

Our backs were turned to the far north, where we might have seen lightning crawl across the sky above the Frozen Shore.

He urged my gaze a little to the west, taking my elbow lightly to turn me, “And that’s Sea Dragon Point, at the very end of the peninsula. It’s all part of the North now, but there was a time when the Warg King ruled those bogs and woodlands with the Children of the Forest.”

His voice was made for storytelling and I wondered if he was spinning tales now, as that last part seemed thoroughly fanciful to my southern ears. But when I looked away from the outline of a distant coast, back to Jorah, I saw no tease in his expression. None at all.

My mind left off all thoughts of Warg Kings and the Children of the Forest swiftly, too distracted by my flesh-and-blood husband in that moment to wonder about rumors of mythical creatures from centuries ago.

Jorah was a handsome man. There was no denying that.

But up here on the mountaintop, with my heart already bursting at sights reserved for airy gods and winged beasts, I found myself more taken with him than ever. He was so tall, so strong. Graceful in his movements, lordly in his manner. Blue, blue eyes and red-gold curls, high cheekbones and a jawline that I wanted to trace with my fingertips. 

In King’s Landing, I’d thought his bearing more regal than my brothers. I still did.

But how much more so here, in his homeland, standing upon the mountain peaks of his forefathers like one of the gods of old. We stood on a perch built for dragons and griffons and other creatures lost to the world—the Lord of Bear Island and his lady wife.

I quivered with something like wonder and pride. There was wild magic here, I was convinced, and I was quite undone by it.

Jorah mistook my shiver for cold, and was soon handing me his own cloak, the one he’d carried up with us just in case, draping it around my shoulders, his hands lingering on my upper arms a second longer than necessary.

I would have him linger longer. And perhaps my expression told him this. Perhaps the magic of this place was spinning in his head as much as mine. For when his right hand slid off my shoulder, he let it fall to my elbow and then my waist, lightly ringing me back so I almost rested against him, under the pretense of tugging me just a hair away from that dizzying, dangerous edge. 

“Don’t fall, my princess,” he warned me, in a tone that I’d been waiting to hear for weeks now. 

“Are you afraid of heights, my lord?” I teased, casting my glance up towards him, seeing how his brow furrowed.

“I can’t fly, can I?” Jorah reminded me, smartly.

“More’s the pity,” I answered, in earnest, with both a smile and a sigh, loving the feel of his arm slung around me, loving the feel of the wind rushing past me, a merry breeze that whispered its secrets in my ears.

_A secret that says you’d like him to kiss you right now…_

I teased my bottom lip in expectation, hoping he’d get the hint. 

But while I wasn’t watching, something had changed again. That same old hesitation reared its ugly head so soon. I nearly grimaced at its coming. Jorah’s hand was already falling away from my waist and he broke our shared stare too soon, his more intense gaze falling away to something more neutral, still friendly but utterly distant. 

And it all happened so abruptly, in a way that seemed to instantly break the magic that had been woven between us, tearing at all threads, unable to hold fast.

Another thought entered my head, rushed and unbidden. Years ago, did he bring Mara Glover up here? Was it the memory of those times that chased away the soft grin from his handsome face?

If it was, I cursed it. 

These were foolish thoughts but at the time they seemed valid indeed, as was the damning idea that he pulled away because he could read my feelings too easily, and didn’t return them. _Couldn’t_ return them. It made me feel both stupid and small, taking all the lightness and hope from the hours prior and crushing it down to powder.

I suddenly felt very cold, but not from any autumn breeze. 

The heavens must have felt the dramatic change in my mood, and changed to match, for somehow those wispy northern clouds had swallowed up the last of blue sky, thickening to a steel grey. They were lower now and looked heavy-laden, almost ready to break. 

Within a few seconds, I felt a sprinkle of icy rain fall on my nose. 

“It’s time to go,” Jorah mentioned, rather gruffly, without looking at me. 

I nodded without saying anything at all, giving no parting glance to the vista that had charmed me so well only moments ago, blatantly ignoring the hand that he offered to help me off the ledge. As I passed by him, I pushed back a couple tears that were threatening to blur my vision, as I wouldn’t let him see me cry. Gods, no.

I swallowed my disappointment and squared my shoulders as we descended the summit, wanting to return to the Keep and forget this day as soon as possible. 

The sudden thunder that growled across the sky above us echoed the sounds of my own heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, you're like whaa-aat? Epic fail, J-Bear 🙈
> 
> But if you think I put only one _very small_ bed in that cabin for no reason at all, well, then you haven't been paying attention 😘


	20. Jorah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the rating change, friends <3

**_Jorah_ **

I’d upset her. I knew it as soon as we started back down towards Josiah Mormont’s old cabin. 

Her pretty smile had vanished and been replaced by something sullen and hard. She neglected to take my hand when I offered it to her on the peak’s ledge. And when I offered it again, further down, as we traversed a steeper incline, she took it out of necessity but didn’t retain it for more than a moment, giving me a brusque and emotionless, “Thanks,” that rang hollow.

And I was just on the verge of seizing her hand and holding her back, to trace a line over her soft palm and beg her forgiveness for whatever I’d done, when the damn weather changed again. The underbelly of that cinder sky cut itself wide open on a spider-crawl of distant lightning. 

The faint sprinkles gave way to a steady downpour that had us running for cover.

These storms were so common in late summer. But this one had been blown in from the Frozen Shore, filled with an icy rain that might have been sleet, laced with an autumn chill that stung when it fell on bare skin.

I’d been so caught up with everything, with Daenerys and her lovely smiles and the fond way that she’d been looking at me up on the high cliffs, that I’d failed to notice the storm moving in. When I finally did, I broke off my foolish and clumsy courting immediately and told her it was time to go. 

Still, I was too late. I was far too late. 

The downpour turned into a proper deluge, and by the time we reached the stream crossing, the water was already rushing and swelling the banks three times the size of the trickling little brook we’d crossed earlier. The creek bed stones we’d hopped across were long gone, hidden in waist-deep waters, all as cold as that autumn rain. 

I was angry at myself for dragging her up here at all, especially when I knew how quickly the weather changed this time of year. And doubly so because we might have been home by now, if I hadn’t offered to extend our trip by bringing her up to the mountain, selfishly wanting a few more hours in her sweet company.

But she seemed so pleased to see the cabin. And her smile only grew wider when I showed her the vistas from one of the Island’s highest peaks. I’d even thought I might just…

I missed my chance and the moment passed. And her mood had gone south with it. I began to think I misread _everything_. I’d deluded myself into thinking she was happy to be standing beside me up there under a great dome of sky, with the entire sea unfurled before us. That she might even want me to kiss her. 

I didn’t. I couldn’t. The same old doubts crept into my head, insistently drowning out the more hopeful musings of my own heart. Daenerys was young and vibrant and a princess of Westeros. I was still a plain country lord from a minor house. She couldn’t find a poorer choice of husband in all the Seven Kingdoms. 

And besides all that, I seemed to have a unique talent for vexing her without knowing why. Which only increased my doubts. And so I didn’t kiss her. Not at the cabin, when I impulsively decided to slip that flower in her hair. Not up on the mountain, thinking I was sparing us the awkwardness of a silent and tense walk back to the Keep, after she inevitably pushed me away.

Still, her mood darkened anyway. And that mood grew no better after an unfortunate slip in the rushing stream. 

I’d chosen a shallow crossing but her shoes were faithless things. The flat soles caught the slippery edge of a log, sending her sprawling to her hands and knees in cold water. I splashed forward and caught her around the waist before she might have been completely submerged. She clung to me for balance, forgetting her earlier avoidance of my touch, fist twisted in my jacket, fingers clutching my forearm, as I helped her reach the opposite bank. 

By the time we reached the old cabin, both of us were drenched and completely miserable.

And Daenerys was now shivering with the cold, uncontrollably. 

My heart clenched at the sight. I closed the cabin door behind us, keeping out the howling northern winds that seemed to follow us down from the mountain. It was another cold reminder that winter would be upon us soon. The frigid rain battered at the thatched roof, falling against the glass windows without ceasing, the pitter-patter growing stronger. There was thunder rumbling above us too, with occasional flashes of lightning, casting shadows on the cabin walls. 

I went to her immediately and helped her peel off that outer cloak and throw it aside, as it was drenched and sopping. The dress beneath was little better and as I briskly rubbed my hands up and down her shoulders, I hated how chilled her skin felt. She was soaked to the skin, her ruined braids drenched and dripping rainwater.

Without thinking much about it, I told her, “You have to get out of these clothes.”

“Y-yes,” she nodded, her teeth chattering badly enough that she stumbled on the simple word. 

Her fingers were little better, too clumsy with cold to manage the front buttons of her frock. I helped her, standing close, our hands brushing by each other as I undressed her, too focused on the task at hand, and her shivering form, to take much pleasure in the fact that this was something I’d been thinking about doing for some time now.

“You’re s-soaked too,” she said, as I finished with the buttons and pushed the wet, icy fabric off both her shoulders, leaving one bare, as the smock beneath threatened to fall away with the effort. I helped her drag that heavy outer dress down around her waist and her legs so she might step away from it, now standing on the cabin hardwood in only her shift, which currently clung to her curves in a way that might have been terribly distracting…

If I wasn’t distracted by the fact that she clutched her arms against her breast with cold and couldn’t stop shivering. She was near to freezing and might catch her death, all because I was foolish enough to think this little excursion might be a good idea.

As I stood up, I again rubbed warmth back into her arms, up and down the length of them with brisk but gentle movements. Her hands went to my chest and the wooden toggles on my jacket, thinking to return the favor. But I pulled those hands up to hold them in my own instead, warming them as best I could between my own, bringing them to my lips to blow a little warmth over her numb, unsteady fingers. 

“Soon,” I promised. “Let me get a fire going first.”

I reached for her cloak from the back of the wooden chair, the one she’d serendipitously left behind, just as another bolt of lightning flashed outside. This was followed by a crack and snarl of thunder that was nearly on top of us. She flinched at the sound. I told her to wrap herself in the dry cloak while I made the fire.

I’d have to thank whichever one of my cousins had the foresight to fill that carriage beside the hearth with kindling when last they were up here. 

I found flint on the mantel and struck a flame on the second try, kneeling down on the hearth stones, feeding the firebox slowly and blowing at the bed of coals, to better fan the first, faint flames into a cheery and robust fire.

Daenerys’s hands were so numb, like pale blocks of ice. She tried to wring out her hair but soon abandoned it. She tugged the cloak closer around her, pulling it up on her shoulders, twisting her fist in its fabric and fur. As soon as the flames sparked to life, I reached out and pulled her closer to the fire. I’d push her headlong into it, if I thought it might dry her out faster. 

When she heard those cinders snap with life, her eyes closed on something like relief, even as her teeth continued to chatter. 

“Are you all right?” I asked her, the concern in my voice coloring everything else. 

I shuffled off my gambeson and wrung the wool out, before draping it over the same chair that had played host to her cloak. I did the same with my drenched surcoat, leaving on only my long tunic and breeches. If I’d been alone, I’d have stripped down to nothing at all. And I should probably have her do the same, but propriety compelled me not to suggest it.

Even if she was my wife. Even if we were all alone here.

“Just—cold,” she answered, having gained a little control over the shivering, as she stood there beside the fireplace, leaning very close to the flames. 

She looked miserable, wet and cold, half-drowned. Her hair was still drenched, her braids ruined. My heart broke on her misery and all the more so because this was my fault. She’d been vexed enough with me even before the rainstorm and the tumble in the stream. Enough that I’m sure she would have been happier to see me out the cabin door and out in that thunderstorm.

Or maybe not. 

For she didn’t flinch nor recoil when I went to her and took her into my arms, embracing her tightly, perhaps rashly, but knowing of no better way to warm her up than to share my natural heat with her. I swallowed her up in my much larger embrace, holding her close, keeping her near, encouraging her to match my calmer breathing pattern. 

In and out, in and out. 

She hung on tight, crushing herself against me, with both arms wrapped up around my neck, soon relaxing enough that the incessant shivering began to abate, much to my relief.

Still, I held her until the flames of that hearth started roaring, and then a few minutes more.

* * *

The rains kept up throughout the evening, even after the worst of the storm had moved further on down our coastline, off to moodily toss around moored ships in the harbors dotting the mainland. Lighter rainfall persisted, continuing to pelt the roof and those glass windows, even after the sun had gone down. The rain, at least, seemed intent on keeping up all night. 

And I’d not risk leading Daenerys down a pitch dark mountain path even if it stopped. We would stay the night and return to the Keep in the morning.

“Will your aunt and cousins worry about us?” Daenerys asked me, with some trepidation.

“I’m sure they’ll hold off sending a search party until tomorrow,” I replied, before adding, with assurance, “They’ll assume we found some place to wait out the storm.”

Daenerys nodded absently, still keeping that cloak around her, though not as tightly as an hour earlier. She was letting the cloak slip off her shoulders, almost without noticing it. She seemed distracted, watching the flames dance. We were both sitting on the hearthstones in front of the fire, still drying out, but with less urgency than before. 

She was cross-legged, close enough that her knee almost brushed my own. Her shivering had stopped and her breathing was even and calm. Her hair was nearly dry, falling in cascades of silver-blonde waves that she’d pulled to one side. 

She’d taken out the ruined braids, combing out the tangles with her fingers, and now wore it loose and natural, in a way that was entirely too enchanting. I swallowed back the first compliment that jumped to my lips, covering my near miss by clearing my throat and reaching forward to add another log to the fire. 

But we were sitting too close and I’d wanted to touch her all day. Not to mention the night before. And a score of nights before that. 

The bath in ice water had addled my mind, numbing it a little. Those silver-blonde strands called to me in an almost hypnotic manner. As I came back from the fire, I found myself stretching out my hand to gently run my fingers down the nearest strand, quite outside my own volition.

I don’t think I could have stopped myself if I tried.

“It’s such a strange color, I know,” Daenerys mumbled, almost as a sort of apology. But for what? For being a Targaryen, with a royal heritage and ancient bloodlines that were among the most honored and desired in all the known world? I might have questioned her on it, asking her how a princess of Dragonstone could be so self-deprecating.

But I was too busy noticing that she didn’t pull away. If anything, she seemed to lean a little closer to my touch. There was sparse distance between us to begin with, a whisper of space that either of us might cross by a simple shift on the stones.

“It’s beautiful,” I answered her, in a breathless rasp.

Flushed from the fire’s glow, she turned a little pinker at my words, enough that I almost believed that maybe…?

_No, what’s wrong with you?_

And then _I_ pulled back. Because of course I did, fool that I was, likely wearing that same stupefied expression that too easily claimed my features these days. The same one that had played me false all day long. And for many weeks now.

Years later, Daenerys would tell me that she was never more tempted to slap that witless look off my face than that night. That would have garnered my attention, surely. But no more so than what she decided to do instead…

“Do you not want me at all, Jorah?” her timorous voice asked, singing with pulsing firelight and barely-suppressed yearning.

She asked the question so bluntly, so vulnerably, with that cloak slinking away and falling to the cabin floor, revealing generous curves which were rising and falling with each breath. Her heart must be racing with the sheer daring of her words, and I had an idea to lay my hand upon her breast and feel the beat of it for myself. 

I pushed that thought away before acting on it. But I’m sure my eyes went wide, as my expression wasn’t the only thing that had gone hard, and I fumbled over an appropriate answer, “Daenerys, I—”

“Because I want you,” she jumped in, before I could conjure another flimsy excuse or groundless doubt, dragging us through another few months of this nonsense. 

Daenerys was done waiting. Her patience with me was spent some time ago. She seemed nervous, fidgeting, blushing, but firm in her desires. She said very plainly, “I want you to be a true husband to me. And I want to be a true wife to you.”

I blanched. I must have. The firelight was playing tricks, casting violet lust in my young wife’s eyes. The storm was throwing voices that sounded a lot like my sweet Daenerys, but saying things I was convinced she’d _never_ say.

She _wanted_ me. She wanted me like _that_. 

Her wandering gaze confirmed it. The way her delicate fingers came to rest on my thigh, lightly risking a caress that she had to force herself to dare, said it must be so. And she squirmed rather adorably under my own frank stare. I couldn’t take my eyes off her in that moment. I was speechless and could only look at her with something between wonder and absolute impossibility. 

I couldn’t help it. I’d never thought to hear her say anything like this. Even in my wildest daydreams, she’d never been so bold.

She shrugged helplessly, having spoken her truth, but less certain as the seconds ticked by in silence. I had yet to give her any answer. 

She muttered, “I know I’m not Mara and maybe you can’t love me like that but I still…I’ve wanted to tell you this for weeks but I was worried you’d be disappointed with me for wanting more. You’ve already given me so much. And I know that you were forced into marrying me and that you never thought to—but I wish you’d give me a chance to love you…even if you can’t love me back.”

Her voice went very small on the last bit, and I thought she might be holding back tears. This roused me from the stupor I found myself drowning in. A stupor borne of realizing what a complete and utter fool I’d been. A complete _ass_. And for _weeks_ , apparently.

Had she felt this way so long? How was that possible? 

She tells me now that I shouldn’t worry so much about lost time, as we righted it soon enough. It was weeks only, she says. But I’ll regret those lost weeks until the end of my life, no matter what my dear girl says. Every minute spent with her is precious, and it’s a true fool who doesn’t seize as many of those minutes as he can.

“Oh, lass…,” I found myself saying, breaking a silence that had gone on for too long. 

I could tell her any number of things. I could tell her how I’d loved her since the moment I saw her walk into the Sept of Baelor, wide-eyed and nervous, but strong and beautiful too. I could tell her how her brothers’ cursed scheme might have bankrupted me, but it was a debt I’d take on again and again. That the curse had become blessing. 

I could command her to never compare herself to Mara again, as she was her own, wondrous beam of sunlight in my life, cutting through ragged shadows that I was convinced I’d never shake off.

Just with her mere presence in my life.

And I would tell her _all_ this very soon. She deserved that much. But not tonight. Having wasted enough time already, I decided it would be better to kiss her. 

With the heel of my hand braced on the cabin floor, I crossed the divide between us. It was a few inches only. I used my other hand to softly take her chin, my thumb playing over her smooth, rosy cheek and then down over her soft lifts. I grinned at the shy smile that suddenly lifted her face muscles. 

She’d been so bold only a minute prior. To see her slip back to bashfulness warmed my heart and set it aflame, with those flames spreading to other parts of me too.

When I kissed her in King’s Landing, it had been a brush of my lips against hers. Soft and willing, but chaste and forced upon us by her snake of a brother. This kiss wasn’t forced at all. Nor was it meant for witnesses. 

It started slowly, our pace careful at first, teasing, testing. Her mouth opened beneath mine on instinct, her hand coming forward to grab hold of the front of my tunic, drawing me closer, sinking into that honey-gold kiss with pleasure. My senses flooded with her, but not so much that I couldn’t recognize that her own fire must have been smoldering for some time. 

In that kiss and the shared breaths we exchanged, that fire flamed to life. 

Tongues tangling, our kiss plunged deeper, burned hotter. Hot enough that the icy rain outside might be the only thing to cool us down, and I expect even those chilled raindrops might have sizzled as they hit our flushed skin.

Her hands were on the sides of my face, fingers playing along my jawline, gently scratching at the stubble of my beard before her hands climbed higher, her forearms soon ringed around my neck. 

Before I knew how it happened, she was sitting in my lap, knees pressed around my thighs, her pelvis spread over my own. The cloak had been fully discarded, the fair-weather shoulder of her loose smock falling away under my own wandering hand. I broke our kiss briefly, gently, promising more before dipping my head down to plant some kisses there, at the swelled curve of her bare breast, before trailing them up along her collar bone to the tender spot where her neck met her throat. 

“Mmm…,” she turned her head a little, exposing more of her throat to my ardent attentions, slowly inching closer to fully enjoy them.

Her skin had been so cold after that slip in the stream. But it was on fire now, perhaps from sitting so close to the fireplace for so long, perhaps from her current perch, astride my lap, where she seemed inclined to stay, the skirt of that shift bunching up around her soft, satiny thighs, with precious little fabric left between her pulsing crotch and mine. 

My hand splayed over her back as I drank up all the kisses she was willing to give. And I gave her back as many as she was willing to take. I’d slept next to this woman every night for over two months, without being able to reach for her. It felt like a dam was breaking inside me, and I was more than willing to be swept away by its aftermath, wherever this rushing river might lead us. 

Was she? 

I broke off our kiss again. This time to bring my forehead down to hers, ghosting her lips with my rasped words. I hardly wished to ask the question, but I had to. If we went any further, I knew it would be difficult for me to stop. 

My voice was husky to my own ears, dripping with desire. My tone was unsure but well-suited to the flickering shadow-light, “Are you sure you want this, Daenerys?”

“Yes, I want this. I want _you_ ,” she said without reserve, brushing her forehead against mine in a tender but insistent gesture, her lips swollen and her eyes alight with fire. 

She pulled the neck laces on my tunic loose with nimble fingers, helping me lift the linen shirt above my head to cast it aside. She ran her hands across my naked chest, exploring, tracing the back of her knuckles down along the ridges of my torso, skimming the vertical line of reddish hair that plunged further down. 

She bit her bottom lip with eager interest, looking very innocent in that moment, even as her hands seemed primed to play at less-than-innocent endeavors. One finger hooked down into the waistband at my breeches, coming to rest there as she screwed up the courage to have the others follow. I watched her with pleasure, ensnared by her beauty, enchanted by her manner, completely charmed by the competing emotions currently stealing across her lovely features. 

She was inexperienced in the way she explored my body, curious and careful, sometimes possessive but sometimes rather timid, realizing that perhaps she went too far. Still, she was confident in what she wanted. She was set on it. Fierce and stubborn in her desires. 

A Targaryen trait, to be sure. And one she’d retain her whole life, much to the joy of our marriage bed.

She laid her palm flat on my ribs, her eyes on that hand, not meeting my gaze as she admitted, in a slightly hesitant voice, “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do.”

“Exactly what you’re doing,” I replied with reassurance, sealing the promise with another kiss stolen from her lips, and then another, tempting the smile back to her lips. I kissed her idle doubts away, all passionate caresses of lips and brushes of tongue that soon led her hands back to the sides of my face. 

In the meantime, one of my hands wandered from her braced knee, to gently drift up under the skirt of that thin, cotton shift, my thumb tracing a deliberate and steady trail along the inside of her silken thigh before reaching the slick crease, slipping inside to find her warm as a summer heat storm, humid and wholly wet. 

She caught her breath on the more amorous touch, as she wasn’t expecting it. The smallest gasp escaped her mouth into mine, startling our kiss in a way that caused my lips to break into a wide grin against her mouth. 

I’d surprised her and she seemed to like it. Which satisfied me greatly. And once recovered, she matched my grin with one of her own, using her steady grip around my neck to ride up on me a little more, leaning into the continuing attentions of my wandering hand. 

We soon abandoned the hard stones of the hearth for the softer mattress of that little bed. My great grandfather couldn’t have chosen a smaller one for his cabin. But we didn’t notice the size so much, as we were moving as one, doused in shadow and firelight, flesh against flesh, pale whispers of love and affection dragged across bare skin.

“Jorah…,” my darling wife murmured my name with heavy passion, as I pushed further into her, liking the way she moved beneath me in the snug space, the way her fingernails dug against my biceps for a better hold, the way my name fell off her lips as a benediction, nearly uncontrollable. 

She was so close and I took my time with her, guiding her towards climax with a flow and rhythm that _ached_ for full release, cresting to a peak that had her stretching out and wrapping her feet around my calf muscles, curling her toes against my ankles. Beads of sweat formed at the hollow spot on her collar bone and between my shoulder blades, our kisses now laced with salt. I kept my full weight off of her, worried I’d crush her. As she arched up against me, I tugged her closer, letting her ride through that wave of pleasure, while attempting to delay my own.

I followed close behind, my braced hand fisting in the pillow just above her head, unable to hold myself back any longer, finally spilling out within her, before coming away, breathing heavily and sinking onto the mattress right beside her, side by side, completely spent. My eyes remained shut as my heartrate slowed, my head buried in the scent of her and the softness of her bare skin, my left arm still slung over her, fingers of my hand playing softly in her pretty hair. 

Her hands were in my hair as well, threading through damp curls as she pressed a kiss against my forehead and another against my temple, then down the rise of my cheek, waiting for me to recover from the wave that had overtaken me so fully.

All the doubts, all the senseless fretting over feelings I was certain she could never return—I was too wrapped up in her, her warm embrace, her hot kisses, her sweet, alluring whispers against the curve of my ear—to remember any of them. 

And I suppose there was always the chance that this was just a dream. I might wake up in our bedroom at home, with that midnight rain pelting the Keep roof, with her sleeping soundly beside me, with all that had just passed between us being nothing more than fantasy.

But this wasn’t fantasy. It was real. Daenerys was real. She was my wife. I was her husband. 

In every way now. 

Afterwards, we wandered out to the cabin’s porch, to stand under the dripping eaves for a while and let the colder air play against our bare skin. 

It was terribly cold in the woods, with tiny icicles forming along the porch eaves and the window panes. Yet, it took me a few minutes to recognize just how cold it must be, having been consumed by fire for the better part of the last hour.

Daenerys took a cautious step away from the doorway. The firelight behind us spilled through the open door, giving her naked body the silhouette of a selkie, albeit one carried up from the beaches down below to her mountain lord’s lair. 

When she reached the porch railing, her hand stretched beyond those eaves, with her palm upturned towards the night sky. The mist of rain cooled her skin quickly. I might have called her back, but was too entranced by every move she made. The way her fingers danced in the mist. The way she held that palm against her cheek for a long moment, breathing in the scent of cool rain. 

But she was soon retreating back into my arms on her own accord, giving a shiver and dashing into my willing embrace, her head buried deep against my chest. 

She mumbled something against me, words too shy and too muted for me to hear. I would be worried that she was displeased by what had just happened between us, except for the strength of her grip around me. She held me like she might never let go.

“What is it?” I asked her, amused and charmed as ever. She seemed hesitant to repeat herself.

I stared down at her, awash in the glory of _her_. Stunned by the notion of _us_. I hoped she knew that she might tell me anything. I hoped she knew that I was hers. All hers. Body and soul. For the rest of my life. 

I tightened my grip around her waist, encouraging her to tell me. She spoke up at last to say, with the sweetest amount of modesty that I might ever hear from a woman currently dressed in nothing at all. She blushed in my arms as she admitted, “I rather liked that.” 

“I rather liked it too, Daenerys,” I answered her back, tipping her chin up from where it rested on my chest, and leaning down to brush my lips over hers. This was becoming a habit that I would have a hard time breaking, as she seemed made to be kissed. 

And often.

Daenerys melted against my kiss. With nothing between us, I felt renewed stirrings that must have raised the frigid temperature outside by a degree at least. I didn’t mind, more than willing to walk into the fire again. And again. 

Daenerys seemed of a similar mind as she asked, feelings laid as bare as her body, hopeful that I might feel the same, “Can we do it again?” 

I chuckled at her guileless manner, which prompted another wide and pretty grin from her. Our kisses continued, even as she hopped into my ready arms, wrapping her legs around my hips as I carried her back inside.

Without breaking that kiss or the grip on the girl in my arms, I used my foot to kick the cabin door closed behind us.


	21. Maege

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile, back at Mormont Keep... <3

**_Maege_ **

Someone set a steaming mug of hot cider on the corner of my nightstand.

“Thank you, Anna,” I said, rather belatedly, as the servant girl was already halfway out my chamber door before I noticed her presence at all. 

White wisps of steam rolled off the lip of that clay mug, spicing the air. It was the cinnamon and apple scent that made me aware of her presence at all, as I’d been lost in thought, standing by my heavy drapes, gazing out at the countryside through night-clad, rain-washed windows.

“Of course, my lady,” Anna murmured back, not requiring the thanks but pleased with it, nonetheless. She gave me a small smile which I neglected to answer—my mouth was not fashioned for smiles—before slipping out the chamber door again.

The apple harvest this year was bountiful, the tangled tree limbs nearly bent to the ground with ripe fruit. The gardeners had been hard at work the past week, picking our groves clean, bringing basket after basket back to Mormont Keep, by mule and cart. 

The kitchen maids spent these autumn days stewing the fruit, boiling them down to sugary jams mixed with forest berries, pickling some slices, preserving still others in jars of sweet honey. 

We had more than enough, more than we could store. So they pressed down still others to cider, a drink that would accompany our meals for the next month and then some, as they usually stashed several jars aside to ferment, the juice going hard by winter, when it would serve us better than goat’s milk, warming us up from the inside out.

It was a long-standing tradition to bring me the first mug of the season. Anna was too young to remember when this tradition started, but one of the older servants must have sent her up to my chambers with that hot mug. It used to be two, taken in the Great Hall, one for Jeor and one for me, as we’d sit together and toast to the coming winter. 

We’d done this since we were children, as my brother was always one for fresh cider—one of the few favorites that he admitted so openly, I think everyone on the Island knew. It was a preference made in childhood, which would last his whole life long, even until he was a very old man. 

I looked at that mug, and a wave of melancholic nostalgia poured over me, in a renewed way, half-forgotten, but suddenly remembered again. I missed my brother. I missed seeing his face every day, I missed his voice and his gruff manner. I missed how pig-headed he could be, how silent he became when he was angry or sad, and that robust laugh that I hadn’t heard in, oh, a dozen years, at least.

I hadn’t seen him in years now. And that didn’t seem right, as we had no other siblings. It was just him and me. That’s how it had been when were children, when our mother and father both passed, and how it was again, after Julia died. 

Would we spend the rest of our lives separated like this, miles and miles apart? I felt some old anger and resentment bubbling up in my chest, too easily, but I kept it at bay, unwilling to hate my brother for leaving. Even if I did sometimes, anyway. 

Well, I hoped he was finding solace or penance or whatever _damned_ nonsense took him so far from home. 

I took my time going over to that mug. When I brought it to my lips, I hesitated, giving a slight, impulsive lift towards the eastern wall…and Castle Black. 

“Cheers, Jeor,” I muttered under my breath as I blew over the surface of hot cider, taking a tangy, cinnamon-laced sip, before setting it down on the nightstand once again.

“Mother?” Lyra rapped her knuckles against my open door with a light touch, letting me know she was there. As usual, her intelligent eyes betrayed nothing of how long she might have been hovering in the doorway, or if she’d seen my impromptu prost to her absent uncle.

She might have, for all that. Her lips twitched on something soft, but she said nothing, sparing me from any embarrassment caused by that sudden rush of sentimentality.

“Did you talk to the stable master?” I wondered immediately, noting how dark the evening had gone while I’d been standing at the window. The storm was a fiercer one than we’d seen all season. It had bite to it, snarling with the taste of winter. The cold rain was pelting down in a steady shower, for hours now, with thunder echoing loudly up in the mountains. 

“Yes,” she nodded. “He said Jorah was down at the stables with Daenerys this morning and he saw them ride off towards Grandfather Josiah’s old cabin.” 

We’d thought as much, after we found Jorah’s horse and a smaller white mare, wandering in the outer gardens, saddled, without riders, attempting to take cover under the eaves of a shiplap shed.

Lyra relayed the message off-handedly, with little concern in her tone. Her cousin knew how to handle himself in the back country and Daenerys was with him, so there was nothing to fear. She soon sank down on the cushioned chair near my vanity, sitting down before the oval mirror, without taking a glance on her own reflection. “Angus said the horses must have freed themselves when the storm started and then they ran home, likely frightened by the thunder.”

“And Jorah and Daenerys haven’t come back?” I assumed not, as my nephew wouldn’t be stupid enough to force his southern wife to climb down a mountain in this weather. As if on cue, another rumble of thunder boomed over the island, that steady rain giving me chills, but good ones, of being safe inside where it was warm and dry.

Bears don’t like to get their fur wet, if they can help it.

“No, not yet,” Lyra answered, picking through the cluttered items on my dresser. She knew them all. I rarely changed anything in these chambers, set in my ways, content with the oak and walnut furniture, the collection of odds and ends—the only new ones being a few dried rosebuds that Jory laid on my nightstand earlier that day. 

Lyra’s fingertips ran over a familiar piece, a white comb made of whale bone, etched with ribbons of pine cones and spruce needles along the shaft, and my initials, M.M., carved at one end. The opposite side had a second set of initials carved in the bone, M.R. 

I brought my steaming mug along as I wandered across the room to join her at the dressing table. I handed the cider to Lyra, trading for the comb. As she blew on that hot mug and took a drink, I started brushing out the day’s tangles from her long brown hair, absently. 

“They’ll stay up at the cabin tonight then, I’d imagine,” I mused, as I ran my fingers through her hair, following the comb’s path. Her hair always took on honey-colored highlights in the summer, kissed by the golden sun. The color was lighter than mine, lighter than her father’s too. I continued, “A little time alone will be good for them.”

“I think so too,” Lyra mentioned, taking another cautious sip, careful not to burn her tongue.

My nephew was long out of practice as a husband and it showed. At least to those of us who witnessed the daily interactions between him and his pretty bride. Their marriage had been arranged but there was something deeper that sparked between them, that was certain. I’d seen the way Daenerys’s eyes followed Jorah when he left a room. And I’d seen the way he snuck glances at her, when he thought no one was watching. Least of all, the woman herself. 

But, more than once, I’d wondered if there was trouble between them too, as he seemed to avoid her company except when forced and she seemed greatly disappointed by his long absences from the Keep, even as he was oblivious to her dismay. He was so like Jeor, a blundering fool about these things. I recognized it early, but said nothing to my nephew, nor the princess, as it was honestly none of my business.

There was an unspoken rule in this house, started long ago, when Jeor made the wise decision not to question who Dacey’s father was, when I showed up back at home, after a few months gone, with a wild look in my eyes, a few errant tears staining my north wind-kissed cheeks and a rounded belly that betrayed too well what I’d been up to while I was away. 

He huffed at my return, but said nothing. No judgment, no rebuke. He was long enough my brother to know how I would have answered him had he dared try it.

But it was a strange time for both of us, which may have contributed to the silence I was met with. He didn’t press me for where I’d been or who I’d been sharing a bed with. Julia’s death was still fresh back then, her absence still sharp as a knife to the palm, cold as the dirt that covered her laurel-decorated grave. 

Wasn’t that one of the reasons for my impulsiveness that year? Having seen my brother’s love snatched from him in an instant, I decided I wouldn’t wait another minute on mine, no matter how impossible it was, no matter how _wrong_ it might be.

And I reveled in it. I reveled in _him_. Prancing around the northern country with him like a wild woman. Until I found out I was pregnant, of course, and everything became clear again. Clear as fucking day. That he was on one path and I was on another and both of us were stubborn enough that we’d never be willing to compromise, no matter how sweet his kisses, no matter how I might melt whenever he said my name. 

I wouldn’t throw away a steady, good life for my child. A roof over my daughters’ heads, a family name that came with pride and honor. Freedom comes with a price of poverty and uncertainty, they never tell you that. And we’re all slaves to something anyway. So I fought with my lover and returned home, in a terrible mood. I shut my door like a child, angry at the world, angry at myself and the man I chose to love. For the thorny path he’d chosen, for the traditional, domestic fantasy that my hormone-addled brain couldn’t help but fix upon while I carried his child. 

We could never have that. A home, a hearth. I knew it well enough. But my broken heart pined and hankered on it and that just made me angrier still.

I brooded here, like a growling she-bear in my chambers, until the very hour Dacey was born, when I could no longer shut the world out. And once my baby girl was laid in my arms, I found the part of my heart I was missing. I finally settled in a way that seemed like it might keep. 

Enough that I was finally able to take heed when Ivy Fisk brought my attention to something I’d missed while I was off burying my own grief in the arms of a lover, and then hiding away while I nursed my self-inflicted wounds, “You and your brother are two peas in a pod, and you’ll bring a child to grief over it if you don’t straighten up…” 

She wasn’t talking about Dacey. 

It was Jorah who was neglected, Jorah who needed his father, who needed me. And so I learned how to be a mother quickly, and twice over, shaking off my own youthful selfishness in a hurry, while trying to snap Jeor out of his misery at the same time.

I took to the mothering well enough. And good thing too, as that fight I’d had with the girls’ father didn’t last, and I had an awful habit of getting myself with child every time we made up again. 

I always wondered if Jeor guessed who he was. But if he did, how could he allow it to continue without saying something? How could he let his own sister have five babes with… 

When my brother joined the Night’s Watch, I broke it off myself, and for good that time, I promised myself, too ashamed to continue lying with a man who would take arms against my brother and not think twice about it. 

Lyanna was the mistake of one last night of weakness, years afterwards, but one I’d not regret. Even if I shouldn’t have done it.

“Mother, did you hear what I said?” Lyra asked me. I looked up, catching her gaze in the mirror, seeing those bright eyes staring back at me, observing the myriad of emotions that must be passing over my features on old, worn-out memories. 

Of all my daughters, Lyra was the most like their father. She seemed to read me like a book, reaching in and scanning through my thoughts, at will.

He always did the same. From the very first moment I met him, when my father played host to a few strapping, young crows from the Shadow Tower—an audacious, clever boy too much in love with life and adventure, on his way back from ranging beyond the Frozen Shore. 

_You’d love it up there, Maege. A land without kings and queens, a country of wild woods and untamed majesty._

“What?” I roused at Lyra’s voice, but for the life of me, I couldn’t recall what she’d said. I made lame excuses, “Sorry, I was pondering on…something else.”

“I wondered what you think of Daenerys?” Lyra asked, almost hesitant to ask the question. She knew my feelings on strangers to these shores. But I also knew she liked the princess. She and Jory had softened to that foreign girl in very little time. Here was another way they took after their father. 

Always congenial and friendly, always willing to think the best of those that others might throw out. 

“I think she likes Jorah,” I replied, after a beat of silence, not committing to much else. I didn’t know the princess well enough to form a true opinion. Not yet. But my opinion didn’t really matter, as I told Lyra, “And she appears to make him happy.”

“I haven’t seen him smile this much in a long time,” Lyra agreed. 

I found myself nodding to her words, tempted to smile myself, though that was such a rare thing. Only a few moons ago, we might have so easily lost Jorah to the Night’s Watch—damn those crows. Whatever her virtues and faults, I still couldn’t say. But if the princess kept him here, she’d have my gratitude in that, at the very least.

I finished with Lyra’s hair, smoothing the strands and bringing them to the front of one shoulder. I pressed an affectionate kiss against the top of her head—a strange thing for me to do, but I was in a strange humor that night. 

When I looked up into the mirror again, I saw Lyra looking past me, as Alysane must have entered the room without us noticing. She was sitting on the quilts, at the corner of my bed, watching me comb out Lyra’s hair. She wasn’t smiling, but that was Aly’s way. I turned to her, musing, “Sneaking up on us, Aly? How long have you been there?”

“Not long,” she admitted. Her eyes were jumpy, her hands fidgeting on the carved bed post. 

I wondered at her manner, but Alysane always had a restless energy about her. I could sympathize. As much as Lyra took after their father, Aly took after me.

With Lyra’s hair finished, I set the comb aside. Lyra turned in her seat and stretched her hand out towards the bed, handing that mug of cider over to her sister. The rain continued to pound away at the roof above us, a lonesome sound that made me happy to have my girls close. 

Alysane sighed where she sat. She took a long drink of that cider before bringing the mug down to rest in her lap. Her eyes dropped to the cider in that mug, before coming up to meet mine, then Lyra’s, then mine again.

“I have something to tell you…,” she said.


End file.
